<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Maiden, Monster, Knight by PrioritiesSorted</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24476281">Maiden, Monster, Knight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrioritiesSorted/pseuds/PrioritiesSorted'>PrioritiesSorted</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, And all that entails, Canon Divergence - War of The Five Kings, F/M, Fairy Tale Curses, Magic, Major Character Injury, Mutual Pining, Romance, content warning for the Bloody Mummers, implied Arya/Gendry - Freeform, just... being themselves, mention of past Jaime/Cersei, this IS a JB fic but if you want to read in some lesbian subtext I'm not going to stop you</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:47:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>45,250</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24476281</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrioritiesSorted/pseuds/PrioritiesSorted</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The tale was told throughout the Seven Kingdoms: the tale of a mother’s mad grief, the tale of the maiden in the tower, the tale of the dragon who guarded her. A dragon who had once been a girl.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jaime Lannister &amp; Podrick Payne, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Sansa Stark &amp; Brienne of Tarth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>266</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>359</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So I have been writing this for... nearly a year. I owe my life to languageintostillair for her stellar beta work and cheerleading on this fic. It ended up being two chapters and 25k longer than I anticipated, and she was there for me every step of the way! </p>
<p>I'm kinda terrified to be coming back to JB fic after so long, but I'm pretty proud of this and I hope you all like it. </p>
<p>This fic is complete, and I'll be posting every 2 days!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sunlight shivered in the West. The dying rays of evening turned clouds to blood. Silhouetted on the horizon, two dark pinpricks cast long shadows across endless plains of ice. </p>
<p>“They’ll be here by morning,” sighed the Lady. </p>
<p>
  <em>And they’ll be dead by noon. </em>
</p>
<p>“Perhaps not. Perhaps he is The One.” </p>
<p>
  <em>If you wish it, my lady. </em>
</p>
<p>“I have wished it every day for seven years.” </p>
<p>If the gods had heard the Lady’s wishes, they were cruel. Great piles of scorched armour and charred bones ringed the bottom of her tower, glittering with new-crusted ice. The Lady closed her window and, miles below, a great blue dragon stood vigil. </p><hr/><p>The tale was told throughout the Seven Kingdoms: the tale of a mother’s mad grief, the tale of the maiden in the tower, the tale of the dragon who guarded her. A dragon who had once been a girl. </p>
<p>It was a sad tale, certainly. It began with Catelyn Stark on her deathbed, or perhaps earlier than that. Perhaps it began when Lady Catelyn’s husband was murdered by his dearest friend, when her baby sons were burned, when her youngest daughter disappeared, and her eldest child bled out onto cold stone. </p>
<p>No. In truth, it began earlier still. It began almost two decades before, when Lyanna Stark begged her brother to keep her bastard son safe, while she was claimed like a prize by Robert Baratheon, an unwilling wife and an unwilling Queen. King Robert had celebrated the destruction of the Targaryen line even as his goodbrother smuggled Rhaegar’s son to Winterfell. </p>
<p>Lyanna hadn’t known, then, how saving her son would doom her brother. Years later, Eddard Stark returned to King’s Landing with his young daughters in tow. It had only taken one conversation between Queen Lyanna and her brother, overheard by the wrong spy, to condemn Ned Stark to death. </p>
<p>That had only been the beginning of the bloodshed. Far away at the Wall, Jon Snow could not know that King Robert was ordering his death. Those brief moments of peace for the boy heralded a death-knell for the realm, for his mother had always been the She-Wolf, after all. The death of her brother had stirred the beast within Lyanna, and the threat to her son unleashed it. When Robert Baratheon was murdered by his Queen, five Kings rose to take his place, and Westeros had descended into chaos. </p>
<p>Lady Catelyn had cursed the name of Queen Lyanna as she lay in her sickbed. <em>Why, </em>she had rasped, <em>why should my children have died so her child could live? </em></p>
<p>Almost three years after the death of Ned Stark, the Kings were dropping like flies, and Brienne of Tarth rode out from the ruin of Winterfell. She had served one dead King, and now watched as her Lady wasted away (<em>from a broken heart, </em>the servants said). Her sword could not save Lady Catelyn, but it might yet save Sansa. It was with grim determination that Brienne had set off for King’s Landing, not to kill Stannis as she had sworn, but to barter with him for the Stark girl’s return. </p>
<p>Lady Catelyn was already fading fast when Brienne burst back into the courtyard of Winterfell, twelve-year-old Sansa clinging to her back. It had been a hard road from King’s Landing, and they had arrived with minutes to spare. It was as if Lady Catelyn had been waiting, just waiting to see her one last child one last time. She had grasped Sansa’s hand with a fierce strength and whispered, </p>
<p>“No one will hurt you again, my darling. No one. No one. <em>No one.</em>” </p>
<p>She had still been chanting those words as her eyes turned to chips of ice, her breath to a cold wind. As the last spark of life left her, a tower of ice had ripped through the earth of Winterfell like a great glass needle through silk. Brienne had screamed as Sansa was carried up up up into the sky, but no sooner had she opened her mouth than the scream became a roar. She writhed in pain as her bones stretched and splintered and reformed, her skin cracking into scales, the heat of her lady’s anger turning her insides to flame. </p>
<p>Less than a decade had passed since that day, yet the tale was already legend. Hedge knights squabbled in inns from Sunspear to Last Hearth about what black art Lady Catelyn had used to bind her daughter and her sworn sword to such a fate. They argued, too, about the sword in question: many swore <em>Brienne the Beauty </em>had been a maid of unparalleled loveliness, tragically transformed into a fearsome beast. Yet more claimed the title was mocking: the Maid of Tarth was so hideous that the body of a dragon was surely an improvement. Those who spoke for her beauty insisted that she was the most loyal of warriors, and Lady Catelyn would have no one else guard her precious daughter; those who favoured ugliness argued that she was a reviled turncloak, and Lady Catelyn was punishing her for her fickleness. </p>
<p>Most who knew the truth were dead. </p>
<p>The War of the Five Kings raged for as many years, and claimed the heirs of great houses alongside blacksmiths’ boys and fishermen’s sons. The King in the North rode down from Winterfell to avenge his father, and the King of Salt and Rock rose up out of the Sea to flood the North in his absence. Brother fought brother as the Baratheon Kings warred between themselves in the South, but even as the elder triumphed, he failed to notice the Mummer’s Dragon crossing the Narrow Sea. By the time the smoke had cleared, and Sansa had already spent two years in her tower, all the Kings were dead. A young Queen sat the Iron Throne, and her mercy terrified her councillors. </p>
<p>The Lions of Lannister, the Kraken of the Iron Islands, the Roses of Highgarden, and the Suns of Dorne all bowed to the new-crowned Queen Shireen and, as she had promised, she forgave them all. She was not rigid like her father Stannis, or wrathful like her mother Cersei, nor was she proud and disdainful as her brother Joffrey. Her family had all died for their hubris, and Shireen would not make the same mistakes. </p>
<p>Peace followed swiftly, and the knights of the realm found themselves with little better to do than break like waves against the icy walls of Sansa’s tower, to bathe in Brienne’s fiery breath. Sansa was the last Stark left, and her hand in marriage would elevate any man to Warden of the North, even if Winterfell itself was nothing but an icy ruin. Hedge knights and great lords alike came to test their mettle against Winterfell’s blue dragon, but they were none of them worthy. </p>
<p>They started in a rush, a new suitor every day. Three moons passed and they dwindled to every sennight. Three years and they came but once a moon. Five years of peace had brought hope to the Seven Kingdoms, and despair to Lady Sansa. </p>
<p>Her most recent suitor, a crazed sellsword in jester’s motley, had not waited to hear the first challenge. Instead, he had charged headlong at Brienne, axe raised. A few heartbeats later, he was a smoking ruin. </p>
<p>He had been the first in half a year.  </p>
<p>Neither lady nor dragon spoke for many hours, sitting still as sculptures. As the stars began their twinkling, promising a knowledge unshared, Sansa ventured, </p>
<p>“Brienne… what if there are no True Knights? What will we do?” </p>
<p>Winterfell’s silence was absolute: the ice never creaked nor groaned, only ate up the echoes and smothered them. </p>
<p>“Brienne?” </p>
<p>
  <em>I do not know, my lady. </em>
</p>
<p>“Will you sing to me, Brienne?” </p>
<p>
  <em>I’ve learnt no new songs these past seven years. </em>
</p>
<p>“I know. Sing to me anyway.” </p>
<p>To the outside ear, no sound disturbed the quiet of the night. But high in her chamber, furs pulled tight around her, Sansa was eased into sleep by a mournful song. </p>
<p>
  <em>Oh, have you seen my boy, good ser?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>His hair is chestnut brown. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He promised he’d come back to me</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Our home’s in Wendish Town.</em></p><hr/><p>For the first time in three years, the moon had not completed her next turn before Winterfell was visited again. </p>
<p>A man and a boy rode across the icy courtyard. The man was mounted on a silver stallion, but his armour was wrought of gold. An ornate sword hung at his hip, and the crimson cloak that fell from his shoulders bore a roaring lion of glittering golden thread. The Lion of Lannister. </p>
<p>Brienne’s hackles rose. The last suitor who had worn such a cloak thought it made him a god. The blackened bones now indistinguishable from those of hedge knights and sellswords said otherwise. </p>
<p>This one was older than the last, and it suited him. No hint of silver showed yet in his golden curls, but it did salt the slight stubble that accentuated his sharp jaw. The shallow lines around his mouth told Brienne he smiled often, but his forest green eyes only pretended the same mirth. </p>
<p>He didn’t look afraid (the mark of a fool, in Brienne’s experience) as he reined in his stallion at the foot of the tower. He stared at Brienne, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and he spoke:</p>
<p>“Seven Hells, you’re a big beast, aren’t you?” </p>
<p>Brienne hissed out an angry breath, allowing a trickle of smoke to curl out of the corners of her mouth. A fool indeed. </p>
<p>“Um—what m’lord means to say, Ser—m’lady—um—Mistress Dragon, is that he is humbled by your—um—magnificence!” </p>
<p>The boy. Brienne had barely noticed him, so brown and drab beside his companion. He looked to be around Sansa’s age, still beardless. The chestnut mare he rode was almost the same shade as his unruly hair, and his red surcoat was dusty and torn from the road. He had a pleasant face, though, open and honest. </p>
<p>The knight slapped the boy on the back. </p>
<p>“Quite so. Thank you, Podrick. Apologies, my lady. Allow me to begin again, I am—” </p>
<p>
  <em>I know who you are. Men of the Kingsguard are not permitted to marry. </em>
</p>
<p>He winced, but not as heavily as she expected. His forehead creased as he examined her, and Brienne felt self-conscious. The sensation was alien, old.  </p>
<p>“How did you do that?” he asked, eyes travelling from the tip of her tail to the end of her snout and back again before he met her gaze. </p>
<p>
  <em>Magic. </em>
</p>
<p>He laughed: a short, sudden sound. His wide smile was radiant, and Brienne didn’t trust it. </p>
<p>
  <em>Men of the Kingsguard are not permitted to marry. </em>
</p>
<p>“So you said. I am no longer of the Kingsguard. My niece, Queen Shireen, is a benevolent ruler but she knows her own mind. My father was… displeased when she chose the Onion Knight for her Hand. I believe my dismissal was an attempt to placate him: she has denied him power but given him back his heir.”</p>
<p>Brienne studied him for a long moment. There would be nothing to gain from his lying, she supposed. In any case, he would likely be dead in a few days. </p>
<p>When she made no reply, he continued, </p>
<p>“You could teach Ilyn Payne to be tight-lipped, my lady. Then again, I doubt I was expecting a verbose dragon.” </p>
<p>
  <em>What were you expecting?</em>
</p>
<p>She had not meant to ask, and he did not answer. Instead he said only, </p>
<p>“I have heard a great many tales about you, Brienne of Tarth.” </p>
<p>
  <em>And I you, Kingslayer. </em>
</p>
<p>“Ser Jaime, please.”</p>
<p>Silence stretched out across the courtyard. The squire, Podrick, was looking at his master as if he had lost his wits. </p>
<p>
  <em>The last man who rode into this courtyard with your cloak on his shoulders did not ride out again, Ser Jaime. </em>
</p>
<p>“I imagine you’re referring to Joffrey. I’m not surprised that he failed to impress. I doubt his father intended him to do so, sending his only son here in the middle of a war.” </p>
<p><em>And Joffrey paid for it. </em> </p>
<p>“Am I being threatened already?” </p>
<p>
  <em>You are being warned. </em>
</p>
<p>Deep within the mounds of charcoal bones she could still sense it, the magic in the weapon calling out to the magic in her. The metal was warped by flame but it sang to her, the notes discordant, haunted. She hated the sound, but she followed it for a moment, allowing its hollow song to find her, so that she might find it. </p>
<p>
  <em>He had a sword much like yours as well. </em>
</p>
<p>It clattered onto the cobbles before her.</p>
<p>Ser Jaime dismounted to pick up the twisted Valyrian steel blade. The hilt was all but destroyed, yet the distinct ripples in the metal still showed, and he traced the swirling red with his fingers. </p>
<p>Abruptly, he stopped and looked up at her. </p>
<p>“Will my squire and I have the honour of seeing the lady before we sweep her off her feet?” Ser Jaime asked, buckling the ruined sword to his saddle as if nothing was amiss. </p>
<p>His words were light, but his smile was sharp and insincere. Fire rumbled in Brienne’s belly.</p>
<p>
  <em>You will complete the first challenge. </em>
</p>
<p>“With pleasure. Would you grace us with the knowledge of what this challenge is, perchance?” </p>
<p>She could tell he was mocking her, discomfort gnawing at her insides as if she were human again: bruised and ugly and vulnerable. </p>
<p>The first time she had said the words, it was as if they had squeezed themselves from her, a knowledge she hadn’t been aware she possessed. Now they were familiar as the ruins of Winterfell:</p>
<p><em>Ride south to the village. First, go to the Maiden, and ask of her one gift as beautiful as my lady. Second, go to the Crone, and ask of her one gift to make my lady smile. Third, go to the Smith, and ask of him one gift to shield my lady. Return by evenfall three days hence, and Lady Sansa will judge if you are worthy.</em> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The First Challenge</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A month ago, Jaime barely thought of Sansa Stark, beyond feeling a distant kind of pity. But Tywin Lannister was not to be denied: not content with his granddaughter sitting the Iron Throne, his son must be Warden of the North as well as the West. No matter that Jaime had no interest in wedding and bedding a girl young enough to be his daughter, or that there was a hollow, burnt out place in his heart still smoking where Cersei had left it. If this was an opportunity, Jaime had thought, it was an opportunity to leave the world in a blaze of glory.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Here we go, Chapter 2! </p>
<p>Feel like I should apologise in advance that there isn't any Jaime/Brienne interaction in this one, but you DO all get to meet my two OCs for this fic and they're both DELIGHTFUL honestly.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>He had been one of the first. He smiled when he saw her, eyes full of mockery. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Sansa had asked who he was, and Brienne told her. The first challenge was set, and he rode towards the village (a fruitless task, though he didn’t know it). He had returned barely a day later, with a handful of painted glass and the promise of prayers. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Sansa had refused him entry, as Brienne knew she would. What Brienne hadn’t known was how deep Lady Catelyn’s anger ran, how it had bound itself to Brienne’s body. A man deemed unworthy of Sansa’s hand was also deemed unworthy to live. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Flame rose up in her like bile, and Hyle Hunt was no more. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Sansa had asked her, later, why she wept. </em>
</p>
<p>He was no True Knight, my lady, but he did not deserve to die.</p>
<p></p><hr/><p>It was a short ride to Winter Town, but it felt like hours. Podrick, for once, was full of questions, and he was fascinated by Lady Sansa’s sentinel. </p>
<p>“Did she sound as fearsome as she looked?” Pod asked, and Jaime shook his head. </p>
<p>“No.” Her voice had startled him not for the queer way it had simply appeared in his mind, but for the gentleness of it. The more he mused on it, the more it made sense: Brienne of Tarth had been a maid of eighteen when Lady Catelyn laid the curse. She spoke in that maid’s voice still, though the quality of it was strange: not like a heard voice at all, but like an echo, a memory of a voice. </p>
<p>“Is that Winter Town up ahead?” Pod asked, and Jaime was glad to answer, </p>
<p>“I believe it is. Keep your eyes peeled for a likely looking Maiden.” </p>
<p>“We’re n—not going to the Sept?” Pod frowned, confused, and Jaime laughed. </p>
<p>“No, Pod, we’re not.” </p>
<p>Jaime had read enough tales and heard enough songs to know how this worked: the Knight was given instructions that were not quite as they seemed, he solved the puzzle, he won the hand of the maiden. Jaime had not envisioned himself as a Questing Knight since he was Podrick’s age, since before Aerys. It had been a boyish dream, and Cersei had always scoffed at it. To be living that dream now, when he was nearing forty and grieving and not at all sure he wanted the hand of the maiden in the first place, felt entirely ridiculous. </p>
<p>Still, if his wasted youth had prepared him for anything, it was this. </p>
<p>“We will not find the Seven in Winter Town.”  </p>
<p>What they did find was a girl of around six and ten, sitting at the roadside. Her face was still somewhat rounded with childhood, and her smile crooked. Her cheeks were red rather than rosey, and her mousey hair was pulled back into messy braids. Blue eyes sparkled as she grinned up at them. </p>
<p>“Sing you a song, Ser Knight?” </p>
<p>When the war had ended, girls such as this one began popping up like flowers on the roadsides, selling songs and painted glass. Jaime and Pod had passed twoscore such on the road from Casterly Rock to Winterfell.  </p>
<p>“I’m afraid I have no ear for songs today,” Jaime said with what he hoped was a kind smile. But the girl was not to be dissuaded. </p>
<p>“A trinket, then, for your lady love? I have ribbons in every colour you can imagine, handkerchiefs embroidered so fine she would weep. I would give you one gladly, as a gift.” </p>
<p>Jaime tugged gently on Honour’s reins, pulling him to stop. </p>
<p>“A gift?” </p>
<p>“It is not every day we see a knight so fine as you ride by.” </p>
<p>For all that he tried not to think too hard on it, Jaime remembered Lady Sansa from her time in the Red Keep. She had been but one and ten, a pretty little thing, courteous and well mannered, if a bit dull. A ribbon or a handkerchief could not be a token to break a curse, and the dragon’s words, <em>as beautiful as my lady, </em>echoed in his head. Surely any material trinket would be taken as an insult, yet this girl’s barefooted innocence and her echoed words, <em>a gift, </em>gave Jaime pause. </p>
<p>Memory came in a flash, then: a great feast, a singer from the Summer Isles, a small girl, captivated, her father eventually carrying her out of the hall to bed. </p>
<p>“You know, I think I have changed my mind. What is your name?” </p>
<p>“Lyarra, ser.” </p>
<p>“A pretty name. How many songs do you know?” </p>
<p>“All the best ones, ser.” </p>
<p>Jaime smiled—the girl was a true saleswoman, for all her innocence. </p>
<p>“Have you one for a lady who dreams of true knights and fair maidens? One as beautiful as the lady herself?” </p>
<p>“A girl as red as autumn, ser? With sunset in her hair?” Lyarra asked innocently. Her blue eyes twinkled, and Jaime nodded his acknowledgement. </p>
<p>“I have just the one, ser,” Lyarra continued, “though it’s sad as well as beautiful.” </p>
<p>“I think the lady might be sad too,” said Jaime. “Would you teach your song to my squire?” </p>
<p>“Your squire?” Lyarra said, just as Pod sputtered, </p>
<p>“What?” </p>
<p>“Since I cannot carry your voice with me to make a gift of it, I must make do with what I have, my lady. Podrick here has a fine voice, so he must do in your stead. If we return to you at evenfall, and again tomorrow, would you have the time to teach him?” </p>
<p>“If he is a quick study.” </p>
<p>“Our quest is now entirely in your hands, Podrick,” Jaime grinned, slapping a vaguely nauseous-looking Pod on the back. “Lady Lyarra, one more thing before we leave you in peace: you don’t know where in Winter Town we might find a good breakfast, do you?” </p>
<p>Lyarra smiled, gap-toothed and bright-eyed. </p>
<p>“Ride to the statue in the town square; from there, follow your nose. It will lead you to my Grandmother’s bakery: you’ll find no better food in Winter Town. She will gladly feed and house you while you are here, if our home is not too humble.” </p>
<p>Jaime paused: the girl’s offer was generous, but he had been looking forward to a long soak in the tub at Winter Town’s best inn. A stay with a local family would be considerably less comfortable. </p>
<p>Podrick, however, seemed to have no such qualms,  </p>
<p>“We would be honoured, my lady,” he said, inclining his head to Lyarra, who blushed. </p>
<p>“Of course,” Jaime agreed, only slightly grudgingly. </p>
<p>Still, he shot Pod an irritated look as they rode towards the town square, but Pod only stared back at him. Sometimes, Jaime missed the timid child Pod had been. Tyrion had gifted the boy to him after the war, insisting that he should be taught to fight as well as fetching and carrying jugs of wine. Pod had been twelve, and barely spoke. He was still quiet, still on occasion stumbled over his words, but for all his shyness there was steel in his spine. The furrow in his brow when he sparred spoke of concentration, not concern, and his silence was deliberate: he listened, he considered, he understood. </p>
<p>He would make a fine knight, if Jaime was ever selfless enough to let him go. </p>
<p>When they reached the square, Lyarra’s instructions proved fruitful. The scent of bread was in the air, lightly spiced, rich and warm and inviting. It was no hardship to follow that smell down a narrow street, to find a tidy, whitewashed shopfront with a window full of golden breads and cakes. </p>
<p>Pod’s eyes were the size of saucers, and Jaime felt for him. Seventeen and still growing, Pod had shot up by a foot in the last year; sometimes, Jaime wondered if the cooks at Casterly Rock were having to buy in more supplies just to satisfy his squire’s appetite. </p>
<p>“You look like you’re in need of some good bread, young man.” </p>
<p>An old woman stood in the doorway of the bakery. She was so small that she may have been standing there since Jaime approached, and he had simply looked over her head. Her face was deeply lined with wrinkles, and though her features were still sharp and pointed, her twinkling blue eyes were kind. </p>
<p>Pod started at the sound of her voice, and blushed. </p>
<p>“Yours does smell, um, particularly good, ma’am,” he said. Jaime wondered briefly where Pod had learned such manners; it certainly hadn’t been from him. </p>
<p>“No need to flirt with me, boy. Come on in, come on in. You’ll need all your strength if you’re off fighting dragons.” </p>
<p>She must be an expert, Jaime thought, at identifying Sansa’s hopeful suitors. Not all would have been chivalrous, or even kind. Lyarra, at least, had seemed pleased to see them, so Jaime hoped that perhaps the less worthy men had passed this bakery by. The mad thought occurred to him then, that if they had already found the Maiden, she may have sent them straight to the Crone. It seemed too neat, too perfect to be true, but so it had seemed in many a questing tale he had read as a boy. It wouldn’t do to dismiss the idea outright. </p>
<p>“How many other men have you sent off to their dooms?” he quipped, as he tied his horse to the post by her door. </p>
<p>“Oh a few here and there. But I’ve got a good feeling about you boys.” </p>
<p>Jaime smiled; it had been years since anyone had called him a boy. </p>
<p>“I’ll wager you say that to all the knights.” </p>
<p>“Only the handsome ones.” </p>
<p>The old woman grinned a toothless grin, and beckoned them inside. She moved with surprising ease, ducking behind the counter to heave a tray laden with pies onto the worktop. Jaime’s mouth watered. </p>
<p>Thick slices of pie were cut, and ale poured. Jaime and Pod devoured the food with more speed than was probably polite. Nonetheless, the old woman seemed pleased. </p>
<p>“As good as your granddaughter promised,” Jaime said, brushing the last of the crumbs from his beard. </p>
<p>The old woman’s face darkened. </p>
<p>“You met my Lyarra on the road?” </p>
<p>Jaime couldn’t blame her for her wariness: Lyarra was likely too young to remember much of the war, but her grandmother would have lived through Robert’s Rebellion. Soldiers were rarely merciful with the women they encountered, and though peacetime had gentled the realm, it would never be truly safe for a young girl selling trinkets on the road. </p>
<p>Jaime rushed to reassure her, </p>
<p>“I asked her to teach young Podrick here a song, so we might share it with Lady Sansa. She was most generous in agreeing, and in offering your home to us as a resting place.” </p>
<p>The old woman exhaled, and patted the back of his hand absently. </p>
<p>“She’s a good girl. I’ve never been one to turn away house guests, that’s a certainty. You are welcome, sers.” </p>
<p>The bakery was so warm and pleasant, their host so kind, that Jaime could not bring himself to mourn their lost nights at the inn. With yellow sun streaming through the uneven glass windows, Jaime felt oddly hopeful for the first time since he and Pod set out for Winterfell.</p>
<p>“Our thanks, ma’am,” he said softly, and their host waved a wrinkled hand in dismissal. </p>
<p>“While you’re here you can call me Maggie. And who might I have the pleasure of housing?” </p>
<p>Jaime had known the question must be coming, but his stomach still turned as she asked. </p>
<p>“Ser Jaime of House Lannister,” he told her, reluctantly, “and this is my squire, Podrick.” </p>
<p>“Can’t say I’ve ever heard of you,” said Maggie. It was a lie, but a kind one. Old as she was, Maggie would certainly remember Aerys, remember her liege lord and his son riding south and never returning. It had never occurred to Jaime that the Kingslayer might be met with less hostility in the North; Ned Stark had been the first to condemn him, but his people, it seemed, were not all so bloody-minded. </p>
<p>“How much do we owe you for this excellent pie?” Jaime asked, keen to change the subject. </p>
<p>“I’ll be having none of that, now. You’re guests in my house, after all. Anything you need, you only have to ask.” </p>
<p>The Crone’s tone was knowing, and Jaime could almost laugh. </p>
<p>“We would bring a gift to Lady Sansa when we leave. Perhaps some of your baking would do the girl good,” he said, and Maggie nodded. </p>
<p>“I’m sure it would, poor thing.” She tutted, “what would you have me make for her?” </p>
<p>Jaime found himself at a loss. He knew little of Lady Sansa beyond the few interactions they had at Robert’s court. For a moment he could only think of the opulent desserts they had served at the King’s table, none of which could be obtained from a commoner’s bakery. </p>
<p>“Lemon cakes,” said Pod suddenly, and Jaime turned to him, questioning. “Well I just think—I think they taste like summer. She must not get a lot of summer in that tower,” he explained, and Maggie grinned her toothless grin again. </p>
<p>“My lemon cakes are as sweet and sharp as a lady’s smile, a fine idea lad.” </p>
<p>Maggie had the same twinkling eyes as her granddaughter, and they promised the same knowledge. </p>
<p>“Lemon cakes it is,” said Jaime, and Pod blushed, pleased with himself. </p>
<p>Up to this point it had almost seemed too easy. The people of Winter Town were kinder than Jaime had thought possible, but the dragon—Brienne—had given them three days to complete the task. There had to be something he was missing.</p>
<p>Still, Maggie seemed pleased with the idea, and set about immediately looking for lemons. When she found none, she bustled them out of the shop again, with instructions on where to find the market. In the insane hope that he might be able to complete his task in a single day, Jaime asked her if the local forge was nearby:</p>
<p>“The smith isn’t your son, is he?” he joked, and Maggie laughed. </p>
<p>“The Bull’s no relation of mine, ser, but I can tell you where to find him.” </p><hr/>
<p>The billowing clouds of steam in the forge made it difficult to see more than five feet in front of them. There seemed to be no light but the deep red burning of coal, which cast long shadows across the barren room. The pounding of a hammer guided Jaime and Pod towards the blacksmith himself, whom they found beating what looked like a vast double-headed axe. </p>
<p>He was a large man, that was certain, taller than Jaime by at least half a head, and significantly broader. So intent was the man on his work that he seemed not to notice his newest customers, and Jaime got the distinct impression that asking a gift of the Smith would not be as easy as Maiden and Crone. </p>
<p>He was proved right almost instantly. </p>
<p>“Absolutely not,” said the smith, before Jaime had even opened his mouth. </p>
<p>Jaime turned to Pod, who shrugged, and gestured for Jaime to continue. He cleared his throat, </p>
<p>“If you would—” </p>
<p>“When I took over as smith in this village I was told that, every so often, some knight or other would come riding through, asking for a gift, and that I ought to give it to him.” Sparks flew from the red hot metal as the smith continued with his work, his blows becoming more pointed as he spoke, “But I’ve been here four years now and it seems to me that every sorry excuse for a man who’s wandered in here has wandered out again with some of my steel, and immediately gotten himself burnt to a crisp, so unless you can tell me why you’ll do any better than them, you can cart your gilded arse out of my shop.” </p>
<p>“A shame,” Jaime mused, “I am told you are one of few men who can help me. Unless my friend is mistaken, and you cannot work with Valyrian steel.” </p>
<p>The pounding of the hammer finally stopped, and the smith took a moment’s pause. </p>
<p>“Might be I can,” said the smith. “Still don’t see why I should spend my time crafting a weapon for someone who’s going to be burnt to a crisp in a few days.” </p>
<p>Jaime decided that was as good an opening as he was going to get, and threw the warped blade down on the smith’s table. </p>
<p>“Think you could make this serviceable again?” he asked. </p>
<p>The man let out a low whistle. He picked the blade up gently in large, calloused hands, still careful not to touch the edges. There was something reverent in the way he held the mangled metal, and Jaime knew he had him. </p>
<p>“Reckon I could.” </p>
<p>“Could you do it in two days?” </p>
<p>“Reckon I could.” </p>
<p>“Could you do so as a gift?” </p>
<p>This time the smith paused. </p>
<p>“You swear some other bugger won’t bring it back to me just the same in a moon’s turn?” He drew the weapon into himself, as if it were a babe that needed his protection. </p>
<p><em>What is one more broken promise?</em> Jaime thought, smiling, </p>
<p>“On my honour.” </p>
<p>“Reckon I could, then.” </p>
<p>Jaime squashed the urge to slap the man on the back—he imagined it wouldn’t be appreciated. Instead he gave a respectful nod, </p>
<p>“You have my thanks. I will return tomorrow to see your progress.” </p>
<p>“You can do as you like, won’t get the job done any faster,” the smith grunted, and Jaime figured it was time to make their retreat. As they turned to leave, a voice floated in from the courtyard, </p>
<p>“Gendry! Come and eat some of this pie while it’s hot. Promise I didn’t cook this one!”                          </p>
<p>“The wife?” Jaime asked, and Gendry laughed. </p>
<p>“Don’t let her catch you asking that. She’ll have your eyes out.” </p>
<p>It was only as Jaime steered Podrick out of the forge, blinking into the evening sunlight, that he realised neither of them had truly seen the blacksmith’s face. </p>
<p>When they returned to Maggie’s bakery, arms full of lemons, Lyarra was sitting at her grandmother’s feet in front of a modest fire. The girl scrambled to her feet as they entered, </p>
<p>“Good evening, sers. Did you find what you were looking for at the forge?” </p>
<p>“I’m not sure yet,” Jaime said, “but I hope so, my lady.” </p>
<p>Lyarra beamed at him, and turned to Pod,  </p>
<p>“I’ve been thinking what song I should teach you, ser.” </p>
<p>“I’m n—not a ser, not properly,” Pod corrected her, blushing. “You can just call me Pod.” </p>
<p>“All right. I’ve been thinking what song I should teach you, Pod.” </p>
<p>“Oh?” </p>
<p>The mischievous glint returned to Lyanna’s eye as she prompted him, </p>
<p>“Would you like to hear it?” </p>
<p>“Um—of course. Yes, please.” Pod nodded, and Lyarra gave an excited little squeak as she grasped him by the wrist and dragged him with her to sit cross-legged before the crackling fire. </p>
<p>Pod was a quick study, but Jaime’s eyelids were drooping by the time he had mastered the first verse. Maggie said nothing, but nodded towards a straw pallet in the corner. Jaime smiled in thanks, and went to curl up beneath the scratchy woollen blanket. Humble as it was, Jaime was so tired it seemed a featherbed. </p>
<p>Yet despite his exhaustion, Jaime found himself unable to stop thinking. A month ago he barely thought of Sansa Stark, beyond feeling a distant kind of pity. But Tywin Lannister was not to be denied: not content with his granddaughter sitting the Iron Throne, his son must be Warden of the North as well as the West. Joffrey had already proved himself unworthy, as everyone knew he would, and Tywin was running out of heirs. No matter that Jaime had no interest in wedding and bedding a girl young enough to be his daughter, or that there was a hollow, burnt out place in his heart still smoking where Cersei had left it. If this was an opportunity, Jaime had thought, it was an opportunity to leave the world in a blaze of glory. </p>
<p>But he had failed at the first attempt. Where he had imagined strolling into the courtyard, unsheathing his Valyrian Steel and fighting a dragon to the death, the reality had caught him by surprise. Instead of the fearsome beast he had expected, Lady Sansa's dragon was a woman: fierce, certainly, but young and tired. She had clearly been unimpressed with him, even in all his finery, and Jaime couldn't shake the idea that he wanted to prove her wrong. He'd become immune to the kind of judgemental stares she threw at him, but the temptation to break Lady Catelyn's curse just for the privilege of seeing the surprise in those guileless blue eyes was growing stronger by the hour. </p>
<p>Perhaps then, the realm might forget the Jaime Lannister they knew. Perhaps, after almost twenty years, he could finally kill the Kingslayer. </p><hr/>
<p>They set out early from the bakery, after helping Maggie knead the morning’s dough. She had pressed warm rolls into their hands and sent them away with one of her toothless smiles. </p>
<p>When they reached the forge, Gendry was already at work. The sound of iron striking steel rang through the square, and Pod turned to Jaime with a wide, excited grin. </p>
<p>Jaime would have returned it, if he had not caught sight of the smith himself. </p>
<p>In the morning sunlight it was easy to make out the features of the hulking young man, though for a moment Jaime thought he must be seeing things. Save his clean shaven jaw, the man who stood before him could be Robert Baratheon as he rode to rebellion. </p>
<p>“You’re here already? Please yourselves, but I’ve only just begun drawing out the blade,” Gendry said when he caught sight of them. “What are you gawping at?” </p>
<p>“Nothing,” said Jaime, quickly, “you just… remind me of someone.” </p>
<p>Gendry huffed out a wry laugh, </p>
<p>“Aye. Imagine I do.” </p>
<p>Before Jaime could ask what he meant, a girl hurtled barefoot into the forge, stopping just short of the roaring fire, </p>
<p>“Have you started folding it yet? You promised I could watch until they came.” </p>
<p>Gendry stiffened, jerking his head towards Jaime and Pod. The girl turned to look at them, and her grey eyes widened in shock. </p>
<p>For half a second the girl looked terrified, breath catching in her chest. A man less familiar with terror might not have noticed the slip before she seemed to relax, but Jaime had spent too many years schooling his features not to recognise what a master of deception this scruffy girl was. </p>
<p>
  <em>But why hide from me? </em>
</p>
<p>A girl she clearly was, despite the roughspun breeches she wore, and how whipcord thin she was beneath them. She was older than he had initially thought, too; her unrestrained  manner was almost childlike, but a young woman was standing before him. Her dark hair was half pulled back from her face, though more than a few tendrils escaped to brush against her pale skin. A beauty without question, wild and strong. The clean cut of her jaw and the jut of her cheekbones were severe, but softened by a delicate mouth and wide grey eyes. </p>
<p>Wide grey eyes he knew too well. </p>
<p>
  <em>Gods, but I’m stupid. They are Robert and Lyanna come again.</em>
</p>
<p>“You’re Arya Stark,” Jaime said, before he could think better of it. </p>
<p>“No I’m not.” </p>
<p><em>Too quick an answer by far. </em>Though he kept his gaze on her, Jaime could see Gendry shift in the corner of his vision, protective.</p>
<p>“And you’re one of the bastards,” Jaime said, just as the realisation hit him. “One of Robert’s first, by the look of you. I assume you fled King’s Landing when my sister ordered you all murdered.”</p>
<p>That was the first time he had seen the flicker of madness in Cersei’s eyes. He’d been a fool to think the years she spent cooped up in Dragonstone had cowed her; his sister had only been lying in wait for the day she would become the Queen she had always dreamed of being. Rejected by Rhaegar, and passed over by Robert for his beloved Lyanna, she was forced to content herself as Stannis’s wife, wasting her youth and her beauty plotting in the dark. If Robert had grown cruel in the years he spent waiting for an heir that never came, Cersei had grown crueller worrying that Lyanna might yet provide him with one. She had waited and wanted for so long, yet Cersei’s reign had been short and bloody, and Jaime had barely recognised her by the end of it. </p>
<p>“My apologies for that, by the way,” he continued, forcing the memories back. “I did try to stop her, but she seemed to be under the impression that one of Robert’s natural children might try to take the throne from Stannis.” </p>
<p>Gendry shrugged, </p>
<p>“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” </p>
<p>He was a much worse liar than Arya. </p>
<p>Still, it didn’t make sense. </p>
<p>“Why did you never go to her?” Jaime asked, turning back to Arya, “The War is over, why stay hidden here?” </p>
<p>Arya regarded him for a moment, still on the defense, poised as if she might turn tail and flee at any second. He was certain he was right about the two of them, no matter how much they denied it. Perhaps Arya could read that in his face, because a little of the tension went out of her, though the set of her jaw remained defiant.</p>
<p>“All I ever wanted was to go home,” she said, voice trembling only slightly, “but Winterfell is Sansa’s prison now, and the rest of my family are gone. Who would believe me if I wandered into Karhold or Deepwood Motte claiming to be Arya Stark? And if they did believe me, how quickly would I be sold off like cattle so some Lord or other could call himself Warden of the North?” </p>
<p>Gendry flinched at that, and Arya looked away from Jaime for the first time since he’d recognised her. Blue eyes met grey, and for just a moment Jaime could see the softness that lay beneath a pair of prickly exteriors. </p>
<p>Before he could speak, Arya cleared her throat and continued, the flint back in her stare. </p>
<p>“As for Sansa… my mother thought I was dead when she laid that spell. No one but a <em>True Knight </em>can save her.” Arya spat out the words, “I’m not a <em>True Knight. </em>Wouldn’t want to be. I did—I did think about it, when I first arrived. I wanted to—but it would be pointless. Better she has a living sister who’s smart enough to wait for her than a dead one who tried to do the impossible. So I live here, and I watch the suitors, and I stay alive. No use getting myself burned to a crisp in some futile effort to save her. Besides, Sansa always liked handsome men—she’d probably be disappointed if her little sister turned up to rescue her.” </p>
<p>“She wouldn’t,” Jaime said. </p>
<p>“You don’t know anything about my sister,” Arya snapped. </p>
<p>“Not Sansa. I meant Brienne—the dragon—she wouldn’t hurt you.” </p>
<p>“How do you know?” </p>
<p>“She…” Jaime found himself unable to say why he knew that. The woman, or dragon, or whatever she was, had hardly been kind to him. It was that voice again, and those eyes… </p>
<p>“Come back with us,” Pod exclaimed, almost making Jaime start. </p>
<p>“What?” cried Arya, looking at Pod as if he had taken leave of his wits. </p>
<p>Jaime was as shocked as Arya looked, but it only took a moment to see the merits of such a plan.</p>
<p>“Come back with us, to the tower,” Jaime agreed. “You want to see your sister, don’t you?” </p>
<p>“You’re that certain of your success?” Arya asked, cynicism writ plain on her face. </p>
<p>
  <em>No. </em>
</p>
<p>“I’m certain that reuniting Lady Sansa with her sister will earn me at least a little affection.” Jaime gave her his best cocky grin, and Arya scoffed. There was silence as she considered him; she was wary, but there was a softness in her eyes that betrayed the lost girl she still was. </p>
<p>“Why should I trust you?” Arya said, finally.  </p>
<p>She would have been stupid not to ask, and Jaime wished there was any other answer he could give. There was no one here to condemn him for the confession he was about to make, but it felt dangerous all the same. </p>
<p>“Do you know where your Aunt Lyanna is now?” he asked, and must have caught her off guard with the question because Arya frowned back at him, confused. </p>
<p>“No. No one knows where she went after—”</p>
<p>“After she killed Robert? No. She disappeared into the night, or so she would have people think.” </p>
<p>Arya raised a skeptical eyebrow. <em>She got that look from her mother. </em></p>
<p>“And you know better, do you?” she asked. </p>
<p>“I should,” said Jaime, “I helped her escape.” </p>
<p>Arya blinked back at him, speechless for a second. Gendry looked almost impressed. </p>
<p>“I don’t believe you,” she said, carefully.  </p>
<p>“There’s a tunnel under the Red Keep that comes out—” </p>
<p>Arya cut across him, </p>
<p>“I don’t care about the how: you can escape from anywhere if you’re quick enough. Why? What was my aunt to you that you would risk your position and your neck to save her?” Arya’s voice was steady, but Jaime could feel the desperation vibrating in it. She wanted to trust him. </p>
<p>“Truly?” Honesty might not garner him the most sympathy, but Arya’s challenging gaze gave the distinct impression that she would know if he lied. “I barely spoke to her. She was aloof and withdrawn—I’m sure you remember. It wasn’t about her at all, really. It was selfish. I thought perhaps—I thought that if I helped her it might make up for all the queens I couldn’t save. I guarded the door while the Mad King raped Rhaella, and when I finally killed him I condemned Elia and her children. I did nothing while Robert abused your aunt, when he ordered the murder of her son, when he executed your father for trying to stop him. The least I could do was smuggle her out of the castle when she killed him for it. People say I have shit for honour, and they’re right, but not for the reasons they think.” </p>
<p>Jaime finished on a great exhale, and brought his gaze up to meet Arya’s. She was examining him like she wasn’t sure how to respond. It was hardly the noble tale she would have wanted, but she had not condemned him outright. </p>
<p>“That’s not the truth,” came a sudden voice. Pod. Jaime’s heart jumped into his throat. </p>
<p>
  <em>What is the boy doing? </em>
</p>
<p>“I mean—most of it—it’s true.” Pod continued, uncomfortable under the sudden scrutiny of every eye in the forge. “Just not the last bit. He doesn’t have shit for honour, he just likes to say that.” </p>
<p>For a long moment, Jaime didn’t know whether to frown or smile. His face seemed to be attempting both, certain to make him look like some sort of a madman. </p>
<p>Luckily, Arya was no longer looking at him. Her hard stare had found Podrick, who was doing an admirable job of not withering beneath it, though Jaime could tell it took considerable effort. </p>
<p>“You,” Arya said eventually, “come with me.” </p>
<p>Pod followed Arya from the forge, looking as though he was going to trial, and it seemed he wasn’t far off. </p>
<p>Gendry let out a low whistle as Arya and Pod disappeared from view. He didn’t bother acknowledging Jaime before turning back to his work, pumping the bellows so the flames rose higher and higher. </p>
<p>It felt like an age Jaime waited, listening to the steady pounding of Gendry’s hammer on steel. It was almost soothing, the rhythm of clanging metal reminding him of afternoons spent in training grounds a lifetime ago. Knights were still gallant, then, and the sun had been shining. </p>
<p>When Arya and Podrick returned some time later, Jaime leapt to his feet. </p>
<p>“I’ll come,” said Arya, “but don’t expect me to save you when your arse gets roasted.” </p>
<p>Jaime could only nod, dumbly, as Arya waved a dismissive hand. He grabbed Podrick by the arm and they stumbled, blinking, into the bright afternoon sunlight. </p>
<p>“What did you tell her?” Jaime hissed as they made their way out into the square. </p>
<p>Podrick only shrugged.</p>
<p>“The truth.” </p><hr/><p>Their second evening with Maggie and Lyarra was much like the first: Lyarra’s sweet voice filled the room with Pod’s a low echo beneath. Jaime and Maggie sat quietly by the fire, and for an hour or so, Jaime allowed himself to imagine what it would be like if they simply stayed. He had dreamed of something similar an uncountable number of times, of taking Cersei and running to Essos, to somewhere far away where no-one would recognise them, and they could live quietly. He had mentioned it to her, once, when Stannis had visited court. She’d told him it was a stupid dream, and perhaps it was. </p>
<p>It was harder than he had imagined to say goodbye to the women in the morning. Lyarra blushed as she pressed a light kiss first to Podrick’s cheek, and then to Jaime’s. Maggie handed Jaime a cloth bundle, still warm and smelling of citrus, and made him promise to install her in the castle when he was Lord of Winterfell. </p>
<p>Their welcome from Arya when they rode towards the forge was distinctly less warm. She shoved a long, leather-wrapped parcel into Jaime’s arms. </p>
<p>“Your sword, <em>ser.</em>” </p>
<p>His title seemed mocking coming out her mouth, the barest hint of a smile at the edge of her lips. </p>
<p>“Thank you, <em>my lady,” </em>Jaime replied, and Arya’s smile grew wider as she mounted her dappled mare. </p>
<p>“You’re a proper knight. She might even like you.” </p>
<p>Jaime scoffed, </p>
<p>“I’m old enough to be her father.” </p>
<p>It was another fact he had been trying desperately hard not to think of, but Arya only shrugged, </p>
<p>“That’s never stopped men before.” </p>
<p>She kicked her horse to a canter, and Jaime and Podrick followed her towards the reddening sky.  </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Second Challenge</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Brienne tried not to think of the time before Lady Catelyn’s death, when she was nothing but a too-large, too-ugly girl. It would be no use to mourn what was never really a loss in the first place. Her life would barely be different if she was still a woman, she told herself; she would not be happily married with a smiling babe at her breast if this curse had never been laid on her. Brienne had been born with curses of her own, and in some ways Lady Catelyn’s was kinder. </p>
<p>She might be a monster now, she might be hated and alone, but at least she was not mocked. </p>
<p>Not, at least, until Ser Jaime Lannister had come riding into Winterfell.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Okay lads here we GO. </p>
<p>Yes, you are correct, every chapter of this godforsaken fic is longer than the last.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Brienne knew she trusted beauty too readily. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Still, when the golden haired boy rode into the courtyard, he seemed like a knight from a song. He and Sansa would look so perfect together, she had thought. The Maiden and the Warrior themselves. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Surely they could not be so lucky: this was Sansa’s very first suitor, coming to free her and to claim her heart even as the War still raged. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>It was easy to miss the cruel twist of his smile, the disdain in his eyes. When he returned from the village, he had declared no one but Lady Sansa would lay eyes on the gifts he had brought. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Brienne had thought it romantic, at the time. But the second challenge was to prove his undoing. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>It had taken him an age to reach Sansa’s tower room, groaning all the way. Despite his obvious distaste for the task, Brienne had been hopeful. She wrapped herself around the base of the tower’s spire, listening to their conversation.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“You’d better be worth it,” he spat, pink and out of breath from the climb.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Sansa had been polite, demure, only twelve. She had welcomed him, asked him to present his gifts. It was not the first time she had been struck by a mailed fist, but it would be the last. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Brienne let out a roar as Sansa gave a great shove, and sent him tumbling back down that endless spiral staircase. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>No amount of Valyrian steel could save Prince Joffrey Baratheon when he reached the bottom. </em>
</p>
<p></p><hr/><p>Sansa had been all a-flutter for the last three days, though she tried to hide it. Brienne was glad Sansa still had that hope, as feeble and as frightened as it was. </p>
<p>“Is he handsome?” she had asked quietly, on the second evening. </p>
<p><em>He’s beautiful, </em>Brienne had thought before she could stop herself. With most people she could censor herself before her words manifested themselves in their minds, but she and Sansa had been together so long that Sansa felt less like another person and more like an extension of Brienne herself. Their fates were so entwined, their hopes and dreams so inseparable that Brienne could see no point in guarding anything from Sansa. </p>
<p>This admission, though, felt different: it made her vulnerable in a way she hadn’t felt for a long time. </p>
<p>Sansa was too distracted to notice if Brienne was quiet that evening. Neither lady nor dragon slept much that night, continually glancing into the darkness, waiting for the sound of hooves against ice that would herald Ser Jaime’s return. </p>
<p>The sun was close to setting on the third day when she saw them riding across the ice. Not two, but three. </p>
<p>Ser Jaime was instantly recognisable, the sun glinting off his gilded armour; the second figure must be his squire, for she recognised the boy’s gangling limbs; the third rider was a ghost. </p>
<p>Brienne had heard many descriptions of Arya Stark over the years, though she’d never seen the girl with her own eyes. Perhaps if she’d been human, that wouldn’t have been enough; the girl would have been a stranger to her. But something inside Brienne called out to the skinny girl who came riding into the courtyard. Catelyn’s magic, still swimming through her blood, buzzed in her veins, telling her this girl was precious, that she needed protecting just as Sansa did. </p>
<p>After all this, Arya Stark was alive, Arya Stark was in the North, Arya Stark had been found by Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer. </p>
<p>
  <em>It’s going to be him. </em>
</p>
<p>The thought took her aback. Brienne could not remember the last time she had hoped. </p>
<p>His impossible discovery didn’t make his smug smile any less irritating as he looked up at her, nodding casually at his new companion as he said, </p>
<p>“Will she be pleased, do you think?” </p>
<p>
  <em>That depends on whether you have anything else to offer her. </em>
</p>
<p>Ser Jaime laughed—as quick to mockery as he had been at their first meeting. </p>
<p>“Don’t worry, my lady, I have plenty of other tokens to present to Lady Sansa. I rather think this will be her favourite, though. Don’t you?” </p>
<p>Arya interjected before Brienne could reply, </p>
<p>“Shut up! I’m not a gift you’re giving to her—I decided to come with you on my own.” </p>
<p>“Really? That’s not quite how I remember it.” </p>
<p>“Probably because you’re too old to remember things properly.” </p>
<p>For a brief second, Ser Jaime looked affronted, and Brienne couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up inside her. </p>
<p>It must sound strange to those who heard it, her laughter: she knew it had the same quality as her speech, but on the rare occasion it was elicited, it was accompanied by a tiny puff of smoke. </p>
<p>Arya was delighted by it. </p>
<p>“Did you just laugh?” she asked, staring up at Brienne as though she were something wondrous. </p>
<p>
  <em>You’re exactly how Sansa described you, Lady Arya. </em>
</p>
<p>Arya’s eyes widened further as Brienne spoke directly to her, though her smile wobbled ever so slightly. </p>
<p>“Sansa talks about me?” she asked, her voice suddenly betraying her age. She was only sixteen, Brienne remembered, and had been without her family for over half a decade. </p>
<p>
  <em>Of course, she talks about all of her family. Would you like to see her? </em>
</p>
<p>Arya nodded, finally allowing her gaze to drift towards the icy tower. </p>
<p>“Will you tell her I’m coming?”</p>
<p>
  <em>Do you want me to? </em>
</p>
<p>In truth, Brienne’s first instinct had been to tell Sansa of her sister’s approach, but part of her had still been unsure. This was Arya Stark, certainly—she knew it from her teeth to the tip of her tail—but it was not her place to tell Sansa. This was Sansa’s family, someone she had longed for and wept for and needed for the last seven years. </p>
<p>“No,” Arya said, after a moment, “don’t tell her. Can I go up?” </p>
<p>
  <em>You don’t need to ask. </em>
</p>
<p>Arya gave Brienne a tentative smile, and Brienne wondered whether a dragon could make a comforting expression. She decided not to try. </p>
<p>Ser Jaime and Podrick made to follow her up, but Brienne hissed, </p>
<p>
  <em>You need to ask. </em>
</p>
<p>Podrick almost leapt out of his skin, and it occurred to Brienne suddenly that she’d never spoken directly to him before. Ser Jaime, on the other hand, only sighed. </p>
<p>“Of course. There’s no getting around you, is there? Tell me, were you this pig-stubborn as a woman or is it a particular trait of dragons?” </p>
<p>
  <em>When I was a woman, I broke the collarbone of my betrothed when he demanded I act like a lady. </em>
</p>
<p>That wasn’t what she had meant to say. She tried not to think of the time before Lady Catelyn’s death, when she was nothing but a too-large, too-ugly girl. It would be no use to mourn what was never really a loss in the first place. Her life would barely be different if she was still a woman, she told herself; she would not be happily married with a smiling babe at her breast if this curse had never been laid on her. Brienne had been born with curses of her own, and in some ways Lady Catelyn’s was kinder. </p>
<p>She might be a monster now, she might be hated and alone, but at least she was not mocked. </p>
<p>Not, at least, until Ser Jaime Lannister had come riding into Winterfell. </p>
<p>“If I live to see tomorrow’s sunset I shall want to hear that tale in full,” he said, that same infuriating smirk having returned to his face. “For now, however, I have a fair lady to woo. With your permission, of course.” </p>
<p>Brienne felt the wash of magic rush through her again as Lady Catelyn’s words flowed from her, </p>
<p>
  <em>You have completed the first challenge. Now you must begin your second. The tower’s stairs are arduous, and a treacherous climb awaits those whose intentions are impure. Reach the top, and offer your gifts to Lady Sansa. If she is pleased with your gifts, and your person, the final challenge awaits. </em>
</p>
<p>Ser Jaime looked the tower up and down, letting out a low whistle.</p>
<p>“I hope you’re feeling rested, Pod. We’ve got a long climb ahead of us.” </p>
<p>
  <em>It is said that the more honourable the knight, the shorter his climb. </em>
</p>
<p>“It is said? By whom?” asked Ser Jaime. Somehow every question he asked sounded impertinent, but Brienne refused to rise to it. </p>
<p>
  <em>Me. </em>
</p>
<p>Ser Jaime only nodded, and Brienne allowed the two men past to begin their climb. In an hour or so they would make it to Sansa’s chamber, and Brienne had no doubt that Ser Jaime could be as charming as he was infuriating, when required. Whatever else he might be, Ser Jaime seemed neither cruel nor grasping, and the man who reunited Sansa with her sister was sure to find favour with the lady. </p>
<p>Brienne wanted to trust him, yet still that old moniker rattled around her head: Kingslayer. How could a man who had murdered the person he was sworn to protect ever be trusted? She tried to tell herself there had been many kings these past years, all of them dead now. There were as many men who could call themselves “Kingslayer”, but none of them had been Kingsguard. None of them had sworn a vow of loyalty.</p>
<p>With her head still swimming, Brienne flapped her great wings and flew to her customary perch on the tower’s spire. There, she waited. She could feel Sansa’s nervous energy, longed to comfort her, but she held herself back. Both girl and dragon were silent for a long while, listening out for the sound of footsteps ascending the final few icy steps. </p>
<p>Arya was the first to arrive, she pelted up the stairs in half the time it had taken the strongest suitor, only hesitating once she was faced with the opaque iced door to Sansa’s chamber. </p>
<p>
  <em>What are you waiting for? </em>
</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” Arya whispered. “What if she’s forgotten me? What if she hates me for not coming sooner?” </p>
<p>
  <em>She’s your sister. She loves you. </em>
</p>
<p>Arya took a deep, shuddering breath as she pushed the door open. Though Brienne could not see Sansa turn, could not see the way she looked as she laid eyes on her sister for the first time in seven years, she heard Sansa’s tiny gasp, her whispered: </p>
<p>“Arya.” </p>
<p>Arya said nothing. The only sound was the tapping of dainty feet on the cold floor, the <em>whumph </em>of breath escaping in a hard embrace, and a pair of low sniffles. </p>
<p>There was silence for a long time, with only Arya and Sansa’s sniffling breath to break it. Eventually Sansa spoke, voice trembling, </p>
<p>“Where have you <em>been</em>?” </p>
<p>Arya said nothing for a long moment. Then, in a voice even Brienne’s sensitive ears could barely pick up, she said, </p>
<p>“Winter Town.” </p>
<p>“Winter Town,” Sansa repeated evenly. </p>
<p>“Yes.” </p>
<p>“You’ve been in <em>Winter Town </em>this whole time?” </p>
<p>Sansa’s last few words were punctuated by soft <em>thwacks </em>and a noise of protest from Arya. </p>
<p>“Not <em>all </em>of it, just… just the last four years.” </p>
<p>Arya was spared Sansa’s immediate reaction by the arrival of Podrick and Ser Jaime, both breathing heavily. </p>
<p>“I do hope we’re not interrupting, Lady Sansa.” </p>
<p>Brienne couldn’t see into the tower room, but she knew exactly how Sansa would pull herself up, transforming seamlessly into the lady that men expected to find. </p>
<p>“Of course not, ser,” she said. Only Brienne would be able to hear the tremble in her voice, but it was there all the same. Ser Jaime’s resemblance to his nephew was strong, and Sansa was right to be wary. </p>
<p>“I must give you my most heartfelt thanks for returning my sister to me,” Sansa continued, and Brienne thought she heard Arya scoff. </p>
<p>“You are most welcome, my lady,” Ser Jaime replied, suddenly the picture of a dashing hero, his voice low and smooth. “It is a pleasure to see you again; those who said you would grow into a great beauty will be pleased to know they were correct.” </p>
<p>“My thanks again, ser,” replied Lady Sansa, with the same blandly pleasant tone she used to thank all men who complimented her beauty. </p>
<p>Ser Jaime, however, brushed it off. </p>
<p>“Don’t thank me yet, Lady Sansa. I believe I have more gifts to offer you, and an apology.” </p>
<p>“An apology, ser, for what?” There was a sliver of ice in Sansa’s tone, but if he noticed it Ser Jaime did not hesitate. </p>
<p>“On behalf of my kinsman, Prince Joffrey. I understand that he was... not chivalrous towards you when he came to win your hand,” Ser Jaime said, and Brienne almost laughed. </p>
<p><em>A kind way of putting it</em>. </p>
<p>“The boy looked much like his mother,” Ser Jaime continued as if neither he nor Sansa had heard Brienne, “and therefore much like me, but I swear to you that is where the similarity between us ends.” </p>
<p>To Brienne’s surprise, the chill in Sansa’s voice seemed to melt as she replied, </p>
<p>“I thank you for putting my mind at ease, ser.” </p>
<p>“I doubt you’re naive enough to be at ease, Lady Sansa, but I thank you for pretending.” </p>
<p>Sansa seemed not to know quite what to say to that, and silence filled the room for a moment before Podrick broke it with a soft cough. </p>
<p>“M’lady, I hope you will be pleased with Ser Jaime’s gifts.” </p>
<p>For all his shyness, the boy was clearly not stupid. His voice was low and gentle, and Lady Sansa sounded grateful for his change of subject as she replied, </p>
<p>“Ser Jaime has already brought me a gift more precious than any other, but I would be honoured to receive any other tokens.” </p>
<p>Brienne smiled as she heard Arya mutter again, </p>
<p>“I’m not a <em>gift.</em>” </p>
<p>She had wondered more than once what her smile must look like, now. She imagined it was a terrifying thing, but surely not worse than her human one, all crooked teeth and swollen lips. </p>
<p>To her surprise, Brienne heard Ser Jaime chuckle quietly at Arya’s complaints, </p>
<p>“You’re right, Lady Arya. It is not a gift to return something—some<em>one </em>to their rightful place.” </p>
<p>A good answer, Brienne thought, and Sansa seemed to agree,</p>
<p>“Not many men would see it that way, ser. I am glad you do.” </p>
<p>“Whatever she may have become, the grief I felt at the loss of my sister was—” he cut himself off and inhaled sharply, his voice tight as he continued, “—inexpressible. To be one of five and lose all… you deserve to know you are not alone, Lady Sansa.” </p>
<p>For a moment, the air was entirely still. Honesty sounded almost strange reverberating around the tower room; for so many years Brienne and Sansa had heard nothing but empty compliments and promises from the men lucky enough to enter. </p>
<p>It was Arya who broke the spell. </p>
<p>“Six. We were six. And Jon is still alive, beyond the Wall.” </p>
<p>“Of course, how could I forget,” the shine was back on the edge of Ser Jaime’s voice, the courteous mask returning, “even if he isn’t your brother after all, you must love him like one.” </p>
<p>“He’s still my brother.” </p>
<p>“I really don’t think he is. There was a war about it, if you recall.” </p>
<p>“Why don’t we give Lady Sansa her real gifts, Ser Jaime!” Podrick said, too loudly. </p>
<p>Arya huffed, but did not speak again. </p>
<p>“Quite right, Podrick. Our first gift is from the Crone. Well, in fact her name was Maggie, and I doubt she’d enjoy the comparison.” </p>
<p>The warmth in Ser Jaime’s voice spoke of real affection for the woman, and Sansa’s answering giggle showed that she had heard it too. </p>
<p>“Podrick has been vigilant in his guarding of them, so I’ve not tried any,” Ser Jaime continued, “but if the smell is anything to go by, I think you should like them.” </p>
<p>He must have withdrawn the parcel from his travelbag, then, because a wonderful scent drifted out of the window. It was the smell of sunshine and summer, of hot sand between Brienne’s toes as she ran along the beaches of her childhood home, the smell of— </p>
<p>“Lemon cakes!” Sansa exclaimed. </p>
<p>“All credit must go to Podrick, the lemons were his idea. What was it you said, Pod?” </p>
<p>“That um—that Lady Sansa might like to be reminded of Summer, Ser Jaime.” </p>
<p>Brienne didn’t have to be able to see into the tower room to know that Podrick was blushing the colour of ripe tomatoes. </p>
<p>“They’re my favourite,” Sansa said, her mouth already full of sweet cake. “Thank you, both of you.” </p>
<p>“I fear we may have played our strongest card first,” joked Ser Jaime, “but we will press on. Our second gift is from the Maiden, and I can take credit for the idea at least, though I lack the skill to present it myself.” </p>
<p>“I beg your pardon,” said Sansa, “I don’t understand what you mean.” </p>
<p>“Podrick and I met a young singer on the road to Winter Town. Her name was Lyarra, and she promised she knew every song we could imagine. I know we did not speak much in our time together at court, but I do recall the joy with which you watched the singers of an evening. You must not have heard many songs these past years.” </p>
<p>“You have a good memory, Ser Jaime.” Sansa said, before popping another piece of cake into her mouth, giving a little hum of pleasure as she did so. </p>
<p>“Then I must defer again to my squire. I would sing to you myself, my lady, only I think it would be a punishment rather than a gift. Luckily for us, Podrick has as sweet a tenor as ever was heard at Casterly Rock.”</p>
<p>“M’lord—” Pod protested weakly, and Brienne wondered if his face was red again. </p>
<p>“Off you go, Pod.” </p>
<p>There was a long silence, broken only by Pod clearing his throat a few times. For a moment, Brienne wondered if he could get anything out of his mouth at all, but then the air was filled with a sound as sweet as honey. </p>
<p>
  <em>“High in the halls of the Kings who are gone</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Jenny would dance with her ghosts. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The ones she had lost and the ones she had found</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>And the ones who had loved her the most.”</em>
</p>
<p>A mournful song, but full of romance. Podrick had a fine voice, but like everything else about him, it was somewhat modest. He made no show of his skill even as he came to the climax of the song and the highest notes warmed the chill air. </p>
<p>
  <em>“And she never wanted to leave,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Never wanted to leave,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Never wanted to leave,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Never wanted to leave.”</em>
</p>
<p>Brienne knew her charge well enough to guess that Sansa’s eyes would be brimming with tears. She was proved right as quiet settled on the room once more, and she heard a faint sniffle. </p>
<p>“I’m sorry, my lady—” Pod started, clearly terrified, but Sansa shushed him immediately. </p>
<p>“No, Podrick. That was beautiful. Thank you.” There was a breathless quality to her voice that told both of her honesty and of something concealed. Brienne thought perhaps that Sansa saw too much of herself in Jenny now, alone in her tower for so long. <em>But for Sansa they are ghosts no longer. </em></p>
<p>“You—you are m—most welcome, my lady,” Podrick stammered. </p>
<p>There was a pause—longer, perhaps, than there should have been—before Sansa spoke up again, sounding somewhat embarrassed, </p>
<p>“And thank you, Ser Jaime. A fine idea.” </p>
<p>Silence fell again, and for a moment it seemed even Ser Jaime had no reply until he cleared his throat to say, </p>
<p>“I cannot tell at all if you will like my third offering.” </p>
<p>“There is only one way to find out, ser.” </p>
<p>Ser Jaime huffed out a laugh that might have been genuine, </p>
<p>“As you say, my lady. I would claim we had <em>two </em>gifts of the Smith, but as your sister insists she isn’t a gift—” </p>
<p>“I’m <em>not</em>!” </p>
<p>“—you must content yourself with one.” </p>
<p>Sansa made no reply to Ser Jaime, but turned instead to her sister. </p>
<p>“You were living with a blacksmith?” There was a hint of Catelyn’s motherly disapproval in Sansa’s voice, and Brienne’s heart seized for a moment. </p>
<p>“A very handsome blacksmith,” Ser Jaime cut in before Arya could respond, “and clearly besotted with her.”</p>
<p>“Besotted?” Sansa repeated, and Brienne could hear the mischievous smile curling at the edges of her pretty mouth. </p>
<p>Arya, on the other hand, did not sound like she was smiling. </p>
<p>“If the dragon doesn’t kill you, I will.”</p>
<p>“I don’t doubt it, my lady,” replied Ser Jaime, cheerfully, before turning back to Sansa. “And now I think about it, perhaps this gift is better suited for a knight than a lady such as yourself.” </p>
<p>“No matter, I can always make a gift of it myself if some better prospect then you should come calling,” Sansa said, a laugh in her voice that Brienne heard so infrequently. </p>
<p>For half a second, Brienne worried that Ser Jaime would take the joke ill, as so many men would, but he only laughed. </p>
<p>“The True Knight of your girlish dreams?” </p>
<p>“Perhaps. Though I’ve wondered these last years if he exists at all.” Sansa took in a breath, then paused, as if unsure she should continue. Eventually she spoke again, barely above a whisper, “Sometimes I think my mother doomed me when she made Brienne my guardian.” </p>
<p>It was Brienne, now, who held her breath. Sansa couldn’t truly hate her so much? </p>
<p>“How so?” asked Ser Jaime. </p>
<p>“Brienne is the truest knight there ever was.” </p>
<p>If she could still weep, Brienne was certain that tears would have welled and spilled down her scaled cheeks. Overwhelmed, she took off from her perch and flapped her great wings once, before allowing herself to fall towards the ice, rolling only at the last second to right herself and spread her wings for landing. </p>
<p>She shouldn’t have left Sansa alone, she should have stayed to see the final gift being given, but she was too weak. She couldn’t sit and listen to Sansa speak so well of her, when Brienne had done nothing to earn it. She was not a knight, she was a monster. It was a knight’s place to kill creatures like her: creatures who destroyed without mercy, whose hearts were hollow and empty. </p>
<p>Sansa was safe with her sister, with Ser Jaime and his shy squire. She did not require her protector any more. </p>
<p>She sat, curled in on herself, watching the sun sink lower and lower in the sky. The hours slipped past almost without her noticing until she felt the great ice door of Sansa’s tower slam shut. She braced herself for the feeling of fire rising up inside her, but it never arrived. </p>
<p>Ser Jaime had succeeded, then, and would face the third and final challenge. Come the morning she would be human again… come the morning she and Ser Jaime would duel. </p>
<p>As if thinking it invoked his presence, a voice broke her from her self pity,</p>
<p>“You abandoned your post, my lady.” </p>
<p>
  <em>She didn’t need me. </em>
</p>
<p>Again, she had spoken against her will. Brienne did not know what it was about Ser Jaime that made her so candid; his easy grace and teasing smile should have put her on her guard. Perhaps it had simply been too long since she had spoken to anyone but Sansa, since she had need to hide herself behind her old armour. </p>
<p>“You know, you’re not half so fearsome as people have claimed these past years.” Ser Jaime mused. He stood with one hand on the hilt of his sword, pretending at ease. </p>
<p>
  <em>Perhaps you’ve not yet given me cause to be fearsome. </em>
</p>
<p>His eyebrows twitched upwards. </p>
<p>“Not yet? You have so little faith in me?” </p>
<p>
  <em>I’ve seen hundreds of men like you ride into this courtyard. </em>
</p>
<p>“There are no men like me, there is only me.” </p>
<p>A curl of smoke rose into the frigid air. </p>
<p>
  <em>A bold claim, and vain. </em>
</p>
<p>“To one such as you, perhaps.” He spoke with such a casual air that Brienne, despite her unwillingness, asked, </p>
<p>
  <em>Why? </em>
</p>
<p>“I’ve not met every man alive, so I can only hazard a guess there are none like me. You, however, know for certain there is not one other woman in all the world like you.” </p>
<p>He spoke as if it were simple, as if it were true. Brienne almost laughed. Perhaps there really were no men like him; there were few enough who named her “woman” even when she had been human. </p>
<p>
  <em>There are few who would consider me a woman at all. I am only a beast now. </em>
</p>
<p>“Whoever believes that is a fool. You’re a poor imitation of a dragon.” </p>
<p>It should have been an insult, yet Brienne could not find the derision in his voice. The words should not have sounded kind, and they caught her off guard. </p>
<p><em>Oh? </em>she asked, unsure whether she wanted to hear his answer. </p>
<p>“It’s easy to tell, if you look. I saw a real dragon once: the Queen of Meereen has three she calls her children. The largest, a huge black beast, had eyes like smouldering coals. There was no humanity in them, no trace of fear or love or pity. Your eyes are… different.” </p>
<p>
  <em>Different how? </em>
</p>
<p>“Innocent,” he said, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. </p>
<p>
  <em>I am no innocent. I am a monster. </em>
</p>
<p>Jaime laughed. </p>
<p>“I’m sorry, my lady. But I find that difficult to believe.” </p>
<p>
  <em>You should think me a monster. I killed your nephew. </em>
</p>
<p>“Yes, you did.” </p>
<p>
  <em>I am not sorry he’s dead. </em>
</p>
<p>“Nor should you be. Stannis sent him here to die.” </p>
<p>
  <em>His own father? </em>
</p>
<p>Brienne should not have been surprised. Stannis was low enough to murder his own brother in cold blood, why shouldn’t he be low enough to do the same to his son? </p>
<p>“No,” said Ser Jaime, his voice—for the first time—just a little uncertain. </p>
<p>
  <em>No? </em>
</p>
<p>“Perhaps Stannis suspected the truth: the boy wasn’t his, though he couldn’t prove it.”Ser Jaime explained, catching Brienne off guard with the boldness of such a claim. “Or perhaps it was just because Joffrey was a shit. In any case, the boy was his heir, and heir to the Iron Throne by extension. Stannis was many things, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew Joffrey would make a terrible king.” </p>
<p>Brienne knew she must have heard him correctly, but she couldn’t help asking, </p>
<p>
  <em>Joffrey wasn’t his son? </em>
</p>
<p>“No.” </p>
<p>
  <em>How do you know? </em>
</p>
<p>Ser Jaime barely hesitated before saying, </p>
<p>“Because he was mine.” </p>
<p>For a moment, Brienne floundered. How could Joffrey have been Ser Jaime’s child? Stannis was unbending in his principles: he would never suffer to raise his wife’s bastard nephew as his own heir. If Stannis claimed the boy was his, it was because he thought it the truth. Brienne’s stomach turned as she realised, </p>
<p>
  <em>He was yours… and your sister’s? </em>
</p>
<p>“Very good, my lady.” His smile as he spoke was sharp, and for the first time she recognised the Jaime Lannister that Lady Catelyn had once spoken of. Beautiful and vile. </p>
<p>
  <em>You—you forced her? </em>
</p>
<p>Ser Jaime took a step back from her. His eyes flashed with anger and his handsome face creased in a frown as he spat, </p>
<p>“Would that be more palatable to you? You would rather think me the monster, forcing myself on my sister. I hate to disappoint, but she was the one to start it—though in honesty I barely remember when it began, we were so young. I doubt you would understand, but I loved her.” </p>
<p>There was a tenderness in his voice that Brienne would have found romantic, in any other situation. To know he spoke of his sister made her stomach turn. Still, something inside her unclenched: she had not sent a rapist up to Sansa’s room that afternoon. </p>
<p><em>If I am disappointed, </em>she told him,<em> it is to have discovered two monsters rather than one. </em> </p>
<p>Ser Jaime seemed to appreciate the irony of such words coming from the likes of her, because he smiled, </p>
<p>“Three, surely. Joffrey himself was more monstrous than either of us.” </p>
<p>
  <em>With such parentage he could be little else. </em>
</p>
<p>A terrible thought occurred to her then. </p>
<p>
  <em>Queen Shireen? </em>
</p>
<p>Ser Jaime shook his head. </p>
<p>“Shireen is a true Baratheon. Once Stannis took Cersei away to Dragonstone I rarely had the opportunity to see her. She hated it there, and I think she hated Shireen too.” </p>
<p>
  <em>Why? </em>
</p>
<p>“Because she was scarred. Because she was imperfect. Because she wasn’t mine.” </p>
<p>Brienne shuddered. Lady Catelyn had never spoken well of the Lady of Dragonstone. A woman who would lie with her own brother, would favour his monster of a son over her trueborn daughter… and this was the woman Ser Jaime had loved. </p>
<p>“The Targaryens wed brother to sister for centuries and no one minded,” Ser Jaime continued, shrugging as if this were a casual hypothetical. </p>
<p>It was only half true. Brienne imagined people had always minded, but the Targaryens made their own rules. She scoffed, </p>
<p>
  <em>Your son was as brutal and mad as any of them, by your own admission. </em>
</p>
<p>Ser Jaime only shrugged again, </p>
<p>“Yes, and maybe my sister was, too. But they are both dead now.” </p>
<p>
  <em>As are the Targaryens.</em>
</p>
<p>She didn’t say, <em>by your hand, </em>but he heard it anyway. He tried to smile again, the sharp one, but it flickered and died before he spoke, </p>
<p>“I wondered when we would get to Aerys.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>You killed your king. </em>
</p>
<p>“So did you, if certain sources are to be believed.” </p>
<p>Brienne’s stomach dropped, </p>
<p>
  <em>I would never have harmed Renly. </em>
</p>
<p>“Did I hit a nerve? The monster has feelings after all.” </p>
<p>Brienne did not answer him. It had been years since she was forced to think of how she failed Renly, forced to remember the hot gush of his blood through her fingers as she held him. </p>
<p>“She does have feelings,” Ser Jaime continued, a hard edge to his voice. “Tender ones, I’d wager. I don’t blame you, Renly certainly was a pretty boy, though sadly for you he also rather liked pretty boys—” </p>
<p><em>What do you want? </em>Brienne snapped. </p>
<p>“What?” </p>
<p>
  <em>You tell me your darkest digressions, you antagonise me. If it is death you desire you may have it on the morrow. Yet why would you bring Lady Arya home, why would you speak sweetly to Lady Sansa if you truly wanted to burn? </em>
</p>
<p>“There would be a certain irony in it,” Ser Jaime said, softly, “my burning.” </p>
<p>It wasn’t an answer, but something in his voice told Brienne not to challenge him. Instead, she watched as he took a few long breaths before continuing, </p>
<p>“Aerys loved fire. There were fewer dragons in the world, then, so he had to make do with wildfire when he wanted to send a message to his enemies. Or his friends. Or some innocent serving boy who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I watched Rickard Stark roast in his armour while Brandon strangled himself trying to free his father from the flames.” Ser Jaime’s eyes seemed unfocused, haunted, as he recounted his tale. Brienne had known Aerys was unhinged, but she’d never imagined what it must have been like to be sworn to such a man, to watch his atrocities and do nothing. She felt a twinge of sympathy. “There was nothing I could do about it, of course. I was sworn to defend the King, and the King insisted fire was his best defence. I wondered every night as I stood posted outside Aerys’s rooms listening to him brutalise his wife: should the vow I had sworn in the Sept of Baelor, with a white cloak around my shoulders, trump the one I had sworn as I knelt in blood and dirt in the Kingswood? I told myself, <em>yes</em>, and then I went away inside; I thought of Cersei and her beauty, or Tyrion and his mischief. I did my duty, as a knight of the Kingsguard.” </p>
<p>He heaved a great, trembling sigh. </p>
<p>“But then Rhaegar was dead, my brothers scattered, and my father was banging on the city gates. When he sacked the city instead of saving it, Aerys was furious. He asked me to bring him my father’s head. What would you have done, in my place? If Renly had asked you to bring him the head of your own family?” </p>
<p>
  <em>Renly would never have— </em>
</p>
<p>“I don’t care, I didn’t kill Aerys for my father’s sake. I killed him for the sake of people I didn’t know, people I had never met. Half a million of them.” Ser Jaime sounded desperate, now, words spilling from him as though he had no control over them. “Aerys had always been paranoid—so paranoid that he ordered caches of wildfire to be hidden around the city. When he knew he had lost, he ordered his pyromancer to set them alight. <em>Burn them all</em>, he kept saying. I don’t know if he thought he’d burn with them, or stand unburnt among the ash like the Kings of legend. Either way, I killed the pyromancer first, before the order could leave the throne room. Aerys wasn’t so fearless then; he squealed and soiled himself and crawled away from me up the steps towards the Iron Throne. When my sword sliced through his flesh I thought, <em>a king shouldn’t die so easy. </em>Yet he only gurgled and fell at my feet. The last dragon king.” </p>
<p>He looked up at her, his green eyes shining. Waiting, though for what she couldn’t tell. </p>
<p>“Am I a monster still?” he asked, defiant. </p>
<p><em>Yes, </em>she wanted to say, <em>a good deed does not absolve you of a bad one. </em>Yet she could not bring herself to say it. He had laid himself bare before her, daring her to judge him the way the rest of the world had. Instead, she said, </p>
<p>
  <em>Perhaps there are more kinds of monsters in the world than we can imagine. </em>
</p>
<p>He let out a breath, then, and his shoulders sagged slightly. Brienne did not know what answer he had been expecting, and she could not tell if hers was worse or better. </p>
<p>“And what kind are you?” he said, raising his gaze to hers again. </p>
<p>Brienne hesitated for a moment, unsure how to answer. </p>
<p>
  <em>Unwilling. </em>
</p>
<p>“I would imagine so.” Ser Jaime replied, “Aerys was the only man I ever knew who really <em>wanted </em>to be transformed into a fire breathing beast. I never knew a woman with any such desire.” </p>
<p>Brienne almost laughed. </p>
<p>
  <em>The transformation was the easy part. I do not miss being a woman.</em>
</p>
<p>It was only half a lie. </p>
<p>“Then how are you unwilling?” he asked. </p>
<p>
  <em>Some of the suitors… they were not all like your—like Joffrey. None were true knights, and many were barely worthy of their sigils, but they did not deserve to die. I did not want to kill them.</em>
</p>
<p>She didn’t want to tell him of it either. Even as she spoke Brienne wondered why, of all people, she was choosing to unburden herself to a man who had just admitted to an affair with his own sister. </p>
<p>Yet this was also the man who had brought Arya Stark home. He had been sweet to Lady Sansa, and his gifts were more than chivalrous. If his tale was true—and she couldn’t bring herself to doubt it—he had saved half a million lives when he killed the Mad King. He was confusing and infuriating and he seemed to see right through her. </p>
<p>“But you did kill them,” he prompted. There was no accusation in his tone, only understanding, though how he could ever understand seemed impossible. </p>
<p><em>I did. </em>Brienne continued, apparently unable to stop now she had started, <em>Or—or Lady Catelyn did. I feel so… angry, when they fail, but it’s not my anger. It’s hers. It burns so hot and so furious that I can’t contain it. The fire… if I don’t let it out I fear it will consume me, I know it will destroy me. Perhaps that makes me a coward but I know I cannot die. I cannot die because what will Sansa do then? That is what I tell myself afterwards, at least. In the moment I cannot think. In the moment I am… I am not myself, only an extension of Catelyn’s magic, of her sadness and her rage. If I ever was a woman, I’m not any longer. I’m a weapon. </em></p>
<p>Her confession tumbled out unbidden, but she had been holding it back for so long. A thousand times she had almost told Lady Sansa, and a thousand times she had told herself the girl had enough burdens to bear. Brienne need not add her own to the pile. </p>
<p>She could feel Ser Jaime’s eyes on her, but Brienne could not lift her gaze to meet his. She was pathetic, she knew. What was the point in being a dragon if her heart was still as timid as a girl’s? </p>
<p>When she finally raised her eyes, Ser Jaime was looking at her with what could only be pity. A spark in the pit of her belly told her to rear up, to spread her great wings and turn him to ash for daring to pity her. Instead, she said, </p>
<p>
  <em>You never answered my question. </em>
</p>
<p>“I didn’t, did I?” </p>
<p>It wasn’t an invitation, but it wasn’t a dismissal either, so Brienne tried once more. </p>
<p>
  <em>Why did you tell me all this? </em>
</p>
<p>“Lady Catelyn charged you with protecting Lady Sansa. With ensuring only the most worthy knight will win her hand.” </p>
<p>He paused, as if this answered her question. </p>
<p><em>Yes, </em>Brienne prompted. </p>
<p>“I could not in good conscience allow you to make a decision without knowing all of me. The good and the bad.” </p>
<p>In this light, his words seemed almost noble. Still, she could not have said if the good outweighed the bad in him, or vice versa. </p>
<p>
  <em>It is Lady Sansa’s decision to make, not mine. You should be telling her this. Hers is the heart you must win. </em>
</p>
<p>Ser Jaime only shrugged, </p>
<p>“Yet yours is the one I find interesting.” </p>
<p><em>Do not mock me. </em>The old anger flared up inside her. She could see again the jeering faces of Renly’s men, a red rose lying in the dirt at her feet. </p>
<p>She could feel the anger rumbling in her belly, and Ser Jaime flinched as if he could hear it. </p>
<p>“I was never mocking you, or your charge,” he said quickly. “Yours is a story worthy of song, and the knight who does win Sansa’s heart will be a fine hero, I have no doubt.” He sounded almost wistful. </p>
<p>
  <em>You do not believe it will be you. </em>
</p>
<p>The realisation hit her no sooner than she voiced it. As she did so, she saw the truth of it: Lady Catelyn had spoken of the True Knight who would win Sansa’s heart. Ser Jaime was somehow better and worse than she had imagined him. His deeds, though reviled, were those of a great hero, yet still his first confession rang in her ears. Surely no True Knight could do something so monstrous as take his sister for his lover. But even so, Brienne reminded herself, Queen Cersei was dead, and Sansa had been alone for so long. </p>
<p>Before she could get too wrapped up in her thoughts, Ser Jaime spoke again.</p>
<p>“I cannot ask for something I could not return. My father ordered me on this quest and… I thought dragonfire might give me an end to make a song of.” </p>
<p>He delivered his death sentence with the same casual air he did everything, but his gaze flicked to the ground before coming up to meet Brienne’s again. </p>
<p>
  <em>You’re lying. </em>
</p>
<p>“I’ve told you all manner of unbelievable things tonight, yet this is what you question?” he asked, affronted. </p>
<p>
  <em>You’ve told me many truths tonight, so I know when you’re giving me a falsehood.  </em>
</p>
<p>He looked at Brienne for a moment, before he sighed. </p>
<p>“Will you believe it was true when this conversation began?” </p>
<p>She almost did. Nothing in his behaviour had screamed his death wish, he’d made it further than most already, but the third challenge was without a doubt the most honourable way to die: she imagined that would matter to him. </p>
<p><em>And now? </em>Brienne asked, cautious. 
</p>
<p>“Now… I would not cause you further pain, my lady. I heard you spared a man, once?” </p>
<p>She had, though Brienne did not know who had told him. She doubted the man in question would be likely to tell the tale of his defeat. </p>
<p><em>Once, </em>she said. </p>
<p>“Why?” </p>
<p><em>I knew him… before, </em>Brienne admitted, though that was not the reason. <em>He could not have loved her, but she would have hated me if he burned. </em></p>
<p>“I cannot imagine her hating you,” Ser Jaime said gently, as if he were comforting a child. Absurdly, she felt like one, for a moment. </p>
<p>
  <em>Perhaps. But she is the only person in the world who loves me. And I am easy to hate. </em>
</p>
<p>He frowned. Pity again. For a second her insides roiled before, </p>
<p>“We have that in common,” Ser Jaime said, softly.</p>
<p>She saw it then: a crack in the mask through which he spat his truths. He seemed as content to be reviled as he was to be admired, but to be known? He had been running from that even as he spilled his darkest secrets. </p>
<p>A pity, then, that Brienne would not let him run from her. </p>
<p>
  <em>People only hate you because you want them to. </em>
</p>
<p>His eyebrows quirked up, surprise showing only for a moment on his face, </p>
<p>“Is that what you think?” he said, almost succeeding at sounding nonchalant, “You have a gift for sounding wise, my lady, but I must question where you learned your wisdom.” </p>
<p><em>I know what it is to pretend to be what people imagine of you, </em>Brienne said simply. </p>
<p>“Do you, indeed?” He smiled, that smile Brienne knew would be haunting her for long nights after this one. “You’re not very good at it.” </p>
<p>
  <em>Neither are you, Kingslayer. </em>
</p>
<p>The smile dropped from his face, but his eyes were soft and almost hopeful for a second before he broke her gaze. He took a great breath, and when he looked back up she could see his handsome mask settle back in place. </p>
<p>“I notice you have not burnt me to a crisp. Have I been successful in my wooing? Does the final challenge await me?"</p>
<p>
  <em>It does. </em>
</p>
<p>“And dare I ask what it is? Or shall you keep me in suspense until the morning?” </p>
<p>Brienne, for once, enjoyed her upper hand. </p>
<p>
  <em>Your final challenge is simple: prove yourself in battle. </em>
</p>
<p>Ser Jaime stared at her. </p>
<p>“Is that all you will tell me?” </p>
<p>
  <em>Until tomorrow morning. </em>
</p>
<p>Ser Jaime only glared at her in response, but the look lacked heat, and for a moment Brienne thought there was the ghost of a smile lingering in the corner of his mouth. He seemed about to turn away, but before he did: </p>
<p>“I have just one more question for you this evening, my lady. I have been wondering for some time, since long before I met you.” </p>
<p>Brienne paused, curious, </p>
<p>
  <em>Ask it, then.</em>
</p>
<p>“How is it that your flame does not melt the ice of the tower?” </p>
<p>Brienne resisted the urge to laugh with some difficulty, giving the same answer she had given a day and an age ago,</p>
<p>
  <em>Magic. </em>
</p>
<p>He smiled again—a small one, and genuine—before he bowed to her, </p>
<p>“Until tomorrow, then.” </p>
<p>
  <em>Until tomorrow.</em>
</p>
<p>Brienne watched as Ser Jaime walked back across the courtyard, striding towards the godswood until he was swallowed by the darkness. </p>
<p>She would fight him in the morning. Come sunrise, she would burn and break and awaken a woman again, with a sword in her hand. Ser Jaime had been the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms when Sansa was confined to her tower, and he might be still. Part of her yearned for the burn and the mad rush of a fight, but the dread she felt was overwhelming. If she won, Ser Jaime would die, and Brienne would never forgive herself. Perhaps Sansa would never forgive her either, though that thought was too painful to linger on for long.</p>
<p>But if he won, if his reputation was earned or if she let him overpower her because she could not face the alternative, then… the curse would be broken. She would be a woman again and Sansa would be free. Sansa would marry Ser Jaime. She would be happy, and Brienne would be happy for her. </p>
<p>Brienne glanced up at the tower, then. Usually, she would fly to the window and speak with her lady, asking her opinion on the gifts, on the knight who had presented himself before her. There was still the flicker of candlelight at Sansa’s window, she could fly up now and ask what Sansa thought of Ser Jaime, though she imagined she already knew. But Arya had not followed Ser Jaime and his squire back down to the courtyard, and the Stark sisters had much to discuss; Brienne would not disturb them. Instead, she curled up on the ice and closed her eyes. Her mind was racing as sleep claimed her, and Brienne did not know if she wanted to face the morning. </p>
<p>Her dreams were vivid and strange. Ser Jaime battled a dragon with smoking coal eyes, while she could only watch from afar. She tried to run to his aid, but found herself trapped by walls of ice. She was in Sansa’s tower, her body bound by the hideous red dress she had worn to meet her second betrothed. She tried to call out to Ser Jaime, but as she did so, white hot fire came snarling from the dragon’s mouth. The tower around her creaked and splintered, melting in the heat of the dragon’s breath. She was falling down, down, down, her bones cracking and shattering under the impact of falling debris, and she screamed as she hurtled towards the ground. </p>
<p>When Brienne awoke she was human again, and her eyes were wet with tears.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Third Challenge</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“The rules of the third challenge are simple: you must prove yourself in battle. Today, Ser Jaime, you will face me in combat. If you win, the curse will be broken. If you lose…” </p>
<p>Her voice faltered, the authority with which she usually declared this challenge gone. Jaime wanted to reassure her, somehow, wanted to smooth the wrinkle from between her pale brows. </p>
<p>Instead, he said, </p>
<p>“I will try not to lose.” </p>
<p>She smiled half-heartedly as she widened her stance, bringing her blade to its starting position, </p>
<p>“I wish I believed you.”</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The takeaway from this chapter is that I hate writing fight scenes. </p>
<p>Have I borrowed/stolen much fo this from germ himself? Absolutely.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>As soon as she caught sight of him, Brienne had known this wasn’t going to end well. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He had smiled up at her the same way he always did: as though she was something to be pitied. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“This suits you,” he said, no less arrogant after the war. He must have felt his losses heavily, but it seemed nothing could take the shine off him. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He returned from the village three days later, arms brimming with gifts. He bounded up the miles of stairs, and Sansa gasped in joy as he entered her chamber, the flush from the exertion only enhancing his beauty. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He was no Joffrey, Brienne knew, but the longer their conversation went on the more her heart ached. He could never break this curse, no matter how much Sansa wanted him to. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Briefly, Brienne wondered if he knew that himself, if this was merely an honourable way to return to his King. She knew he would make it to the third challenge, but she knew too that if they fought he would lose. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Still, she didn’t want to kill him. When he descended once more, with Sansa’s favour tucked into his ornate armour, an almost human Brienne was waiting in the courtyard. Her entire body burned: she was so much more brittle now, her fragile flesh barely able to contain the might of Catelyn’s magic. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He put up a good fight, as she had known he would. If she hadn’t known him before, and known him too well, Brienne would have been tempted to let him win. As it was, he landed on his back, sword skittering across the ice as Brienne brought her weapon down just beside his head. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Her aim was perfect, they both knew. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“I yield.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>With those two words she could feel it: the fire rising up inside her. The transformation back was no less painful, the feel of her bones cracking and growing and re-setting inside her, scales bursting through her skin. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>At least this time, she was ready for it. This time she steeled herself, seizing back control for just long enough to look Loras Tyrell in eye and say, </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Run.” </em>
</p><hr/><p>Podrick had set up their camp in the godswood, the only place left in Winterfell that might yet be alive. The weirwood trees with their blood red faces unnerved Jaime, but it was better than sleeping out in the courtyard, exposed to the freezing winds. </p>
<p>If he hadn’t spent the day climbing an unholy amount of stairs (he must be getting old, the climb hardly seemed to bother Pod at all), Jaime knew he could have lain awake all night. His conversation with the dragon, with Brienne, had left him raw and strangely light all at once. </p>
<p>As he drifted into an uneasy sleep, Jaime thought he heard her voice again. A maiden’s voice, sweet but rich, singing, </p>
<p>
  <em>Oh, have you seen my lover, ser?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>His eyes are forest green.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He swore I was his only love, </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The fairest girl he’d seen. </em>
</p><hr/><p>He opened his eyes in the crypts beneath Winterfell. Frost covered every statue and every tomb, and though Jaime was as naked as his nameday, he did not shiver. He must be dreaming, then. </p>
<p>His footsteps echoed through the dark, and even as he wished for a light, any light, he heard the soft <em>whoosh </em>of flame, and turned to see a sword, seemingly stuck into the cold stone where he had been lying moments before. The blade was blue flame, and Jaime pulled it with ease from the ground. </p>
<p>As he turned, he felt his heart jolt in his chest. The figures in the crypt were not the Starks, but his own family. Joffrey was there, his effigy seeming to smoke in the cold; Cersei beside him, her golden curls still shining; the last looming figure was his father, no colder in stone than he was in life. He felt the force of his father’s disapproval no less keenly either. With every step, Jaime could feel the weight of his impending failure bearing down upon him. </p>
<p>
  <em>Another heir lost on a fool’s errand, Father. She’s just a girl, and I don’t want her castle. </em>
</p>
<p>The very thought seemed to summon her, but this was not the Sansa he had met in the tower. This was the girl from King’s Landing, small and soft and fragile. Just a child. Her big blue eyes swam with tears as she said, </p>
<p>“You wouldn’t let Aerys kill your father, Ser Jaime. Why did you let Robert kill mine?” </p>
<p>Jaime scrambled for an answer, any answer that might placate her, but before he could grasp at even the brittlest straw, another voice echoed through the crypt. </p>
<p>“You saved Lyanna Stark, Ser Jaime. Why did you not save my children? Why did you not save me?” </p>
<p>His body turned to face Elia without the permission of his mind. The front of her nightdress was bathed in blood, running from the head of the infant she held to her chest. A little girl clung to her skirts, her own tiny gown torn and bloodied. </p>
<p>“I didn’t know—I couldn’t—I had to kill Aerys,” Jaime stammered. </p>
<p>“You were never a True Knight. How did you ever think you could win me?” When Jaime turned back to Sansa she was grown again, but the sneering expression on her face reminded him more of his sister than of the maid who had received his gifts so graciously. </p>
<p>“I never wished to win you,” Jaime insisted. “You aren’t truly Sansa, just a Mummer of my mind.” </p>
<p>“The Mummers will be here soon, and you will not be ready.” </p>
<p>Jaime’s head whipped round, following a familiar voice. He couldn’t grasp how he knew it, the memory slipping through his fingers like so much silk. </p>
<p>He stared at the woman before him, bewildered. He could have sworn he knew her voice, yet this was a perfect stranger. </p>
<p>She was taller than he, and broader too, he thought. She was also, he noted with a blush, naked. There was only the slightest curve to her form, though a woman she clearly was. </p>
<p>He raised the sword until its wavering blue flame illuminated her face. She would never be called pretty; her features were coarse, with a nose that looked to have been broken more than once. Nor did she seem entirely human; tiny iridescent blue scales were scattered across her cheeks, tumbling like waterfalls off her broad shoulders and down onto her chest and her muscled arms. </p>
<p><em>Freckles, </em>Jaime thought, stupidly. </p>
<p>The woman caught his gaze, and he could not tell if it was the reflection from his sword, or if her eyes were blue flame themselves. He had seen those eyes somewhere before, if only he could remember… </p>
<p>“Give me a sword,” she said, “quickly, they’re coming.” </p>
<p><em>What sword? </em>He wanted to ask, but before he could speak, a weapon appeared in his left hand, twin to the one in his right. The steel flashed as he handed it to her, and the blade took flame. </p>
<p>There was a rumble from deep within the darkness. Jaime looked around for Sansa and for Elia, but both had disappeared. </p>
<p>They were alone in the black, and the rumbling grew louder. </p>
<p>“Are you ready, Jaime?” she asked. </p>
<p>He opened his mouth to answer, to ask how she knew his name, but he could only scream. A blinding pain shot up his right arm, and Jaime jolted awake. He opened his eyes to see cold, bright sunlight filtering through the red leaves of the weirwood. Podrick was still asleep by his side, so Jaime rose as quietly as he could. </p>
<p>The morning air was still and crisp, just as it had been the previous morning, yet something about it felt strange. As Jaime made his way back into Winterfell’s courtyard, the space felt echoing and hollow: the blue dragon was nowhere to be seen. </p>
<p>“Looking for something?” </p>
<p>Jaime spun around, reaching for the sword he had stupidly left in his bedroll. He froze as he recognised her. She was exactly as she had been in his dream, though clad this time in boiled leather instead of merely skin. </p>
<p>In the cold light of day, her features were even more unfortunate: swollen lips barely covered her crooked teeth, and her straw coloured hair hung limp to her shoulders. Yet those captivating, scale-like blue markings remained, only emphasising the astonishing blue of her eyes. </p>
<p>“You’re her,” Jaime said, breathless. “Brienne.” </p>
<p>She seemed to shift uncomfortably under his scrutiny, but her gaze stayed defiantly forward. </p>
<p>“Good morning, Ser Jaime.” </p>
<p>Some of his confusion must have shown on his face, because the corners of Brienne’s wide mouth twitched up as she said, </p>
<p>“Are you ready for your final challenge?” </p>
<p>“I must prove myself in battle.” </p>
<p>Brienne nodded. Jaime took in the garments she wore again—they had seemed to be dark leather at first glance, but as Brienne shifted her weight the light played across deep blueblack scales. Armour. </p>
<p>“I must prove myself in battle against you?” </p>
<p>Brienne nodded again, </p>
<p>“You’re not as stupid as you look.” </p>
<p>The tiny spark of mischief in her eyes made them all the more astonishing, and Jaime could only say, </p>
<p>“Oh.”</p>
<p>Brienne only looked at him, as if waiting for him to speak again. A hundred thoughts seemed to fill his head at once, but through them all he remembered Lady Sansa gently placing Gendry’s sword back in his hands, smiling as she refused his final gift. </p>
<p>“Stay there,” Jaime said as he took off towards the godswood. He could hear Brienne calling after him, but he strode resolutely back to where Podrick was just starting to blink awake. </p>
<p>Jaime carefully unwrapped his final gift from the soft leather encasing it. He smiled. </p>
<p>Brienne was waiting in the courtyard, a faintly irritated expression on her face. Part of Jaime itched to bait her further, but the tension in the lines of her body gave him pause. If it was she who would fight him for Sansa’s freedom, it would not do to upset her now, with their duel inching closer by the minute. </p>
<p>Instead, he laid his final gift across his palms and offered it to her. Brienne only stared at it, the crease between her brows growing deeper.</p>
<p>“Take it,” Jaime insisted. </p>
<p>Brienne’s fingers brushed his own as she took the weapon gingerly from him. She cradled it as if it were made of glass. </p>
<p>“I offered it to Sansa, but she told me it would be better used in hands other than hers. You charged me to find <em>one gift to shield your lady</em>: so who better to protect her with it than you?”</p>
<p>“She does not need protecting from you.” </p>
<p>“Perhaps not.” Jaime held up his own weapon, the same blood red ripples running through dark steel. “Did you know these swords were made from Ice?” </p>
<p>Brienne’s pale eyebrows shot up in surprise before confusion settled over her features, </p>
<p>“Ned Stark’s greatsword?”</p>
<p>“The very same. My father has always been covetous of Valyrian steel,” A prickle of shame rose up the back of his neck as he continued, “Brightroar is long lost, and it irked him that lesser houses should have something that we ourselves did not. When Stannis and my sister took the throne from Robert, Cersei made sure that Ice would make its way into my father’s hands. Tywin melted down the greatsword to make these: one for me, and one for Joffrey. I’m glad that blade will now be wielded by someone worthy of it.” </p>
<p>The fingers of Brienne’s right hand wound around the sword’s grip as her left followed the marbling of the steel. </p>
<p>“I have heard Valyrian steel makes its wielder more skilled. Is that true?” she asked, her voice soft and filled with awe. </p>
<p>“I have been the best swordsman in Westeros since I was eighteen,” Jaime shrugged, “but this made me better.” </p>
<p>“This is a very kind gift, Ser Jaime,” said Brienne, “and a very stupid one. I have defeated every knight who challenged me in the last seven years, even without Valyrian steel.” </p>
<p>“None of them were me.” Jaime smirked up at her, but the concern etched between her brows remained as Brienne stared down at the weapon in her hands. She worried her bottom lip with uneven teeth, and eventually raised her eyes to Jaime’s. He was struck anew by the innocence and beauty in them; Brienne seemed to hesitate for a moment, drawing in a shaky breath. She looked so young, suddenly, and Jaime had to remind himself that she couldn’t be more than five and twenty. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, Podrick tumbled into the courtyard, still groggily attempting to fasten his swordbelt around his hips. </p>
<p>Brienne blinked and closed her mouth again, retreating slightly back into herself. </p>
<p>“The rules of the third challenge are simple,” she said as Podrick jogged over to where they stood, unaware of the disruption he had caused. He looked from Jaime to Brienne and back again, eyes widening as Brienne continued, “You must prove yourself in battle. Today, Ser Jaime, you will face me in combat. If you win, the curse will be broken. If you lose…” </p>
<p>Her voice faltered, the authority with which she usually declared this challenge gone. Jaime wanted to reassure her, somehow, wanted to smooth the wrinkle from between her pale brows. </p>
<p>Instead, he said, </p>
<p>“I will try not to lose.” </p>
<p>She smiled half-heartedly as she widened her stance, bringing her blade to its starting position, </p>
<p>“I wish I believed you.” </p>
<p>It was as if the air was entirely still for a second. Jaime could hear Podrick’s sharp intake of breath, feel every crystal of ice in the air, see every shaft of light as it bounced off Brienne’s blade. He exhaled as he stepped forward into a dance that felt like second nature. At the first meeting of their swords, Jaime caught Brienne’s eye and couldn’t help the smile spreading across his face. She was stronger than he had anticipated, of course. He chastised himself for underestimating her even as his blood sang with anticipation. If this was to be his final fight, it would be a good one. </p>
<p>Brienne did not seem to share his enthusiasm. With every one of his blows that she parried with apparent ease, the crease between her pale eyebrows grew deeper. She made no move to attack in return, allowing him only to hack fruitlessly at her with increasing frustration, giving not an inch of ground. </p>
<p>“Come now, wench,” he said, swinging his sword in a deadly arc only to be rebuffed again, “I didn’t give you Valyrian steel so you could swat me away like an unwanted insect. Show me what you’re made of.” </p>
<p>“No.” </p>
<p>Jaime had a hundred barbs ready to goad her into action, but he paused when he heard the tremble in her voice. Though she blocked his attacks with ease, he could see that her whole body was trembling. Her frown, now that he really looked, was more pained than irritated, and she winced every time their swords met. </p>
<p>“You’re holding back,” Jaime grunted as he redoubled his efforts. “It’s hurting you.” </p>
<p>If he was right, she did not acknowledge it. Still, if there was one thing Jaime was better at than swordplay, it was goading his opponent.</p>
<p>“You looked tired, my lady. Do you need respite already?” </p>
<p>Brienne made no reply, concentrating staunchly on rebuffing his attacks as he thrust his blade forward and forward and forward, forcing her back. </p>
<p>“Truly, I was expecting a better fight from you. I shouldn’t have expected much better from a wench, though, even one touched with magic.” </p>
<p>Brienne went on ignoring him. The clash of steel bounced off the cold walls of Winterfell. A bead of sweat ran down the side of her face. </p>
<p>“The men of Renly’s camp must have been even weaker than I imagined.” Jaime tried desperately not to show how his breath was quickening, words tumbling from his lips unrestrained. “I would ask if you sucked his cock to get into the Rainbow Guard but we both know it was Loras Tyrell’s mouth he was interested in. I don’t blame him either—the boy is certainly prettier than you.” </p>
<p>Finally, Jaime caught a flash of anger in her eyes, and Brienne stepped forward, parrying his stroke with a force that sent his bones rattling. </p>
<p>Jaime smiled. </p>
<p>“It’s a shame, for you, that I’m winning,” Jaime continued, though he felt less than confident about his theoretical victory now Brienne was advancing towards him. “What will you do without your lady to guard? Go back to your island and marry some ancient landless knight who’s willing to fuck you in the dark? How will that feel, knowing that once you could have burned him to a crisp? I pity you.” </p>
<p>Those were the magic words. With a roar, Brienne lunged forward, almost knocking him off balance.</p>
<p>Jaime had guessed she would be strong, but he hadn’t imagined she would be fast as well. The Hound might have been able to break Jaime in half with his bare hands, but Jaime had always been quicker, and so they were well matched. Brienne was not as big as the Hound, nor as strong, but she was faster than Jaime thought possible. He ducked out of the way of her downward cut just in time, bringing his blade up at the last moment to meet her blow. </p>
<p>Then they were flying, clashing, dancing to a racing beat only the two of them could hear. Each time Jaime lunged forward she met him, pushed him away, forced him to meet her again on the back foot. A vainer man would have insisted her strength was witch-given, but the power in her muscled limbs was too tangible, the tension in her body and her grunts of effort betraying her humanity. </p>
<p>Jaime was breathing hard when he finally ducked out of her way for a moment of respite. </p>
<p>“That’s more like it,” he panted. “I can see how you bested so many green squires and hedge knights.” </p>
<p>Brienne let out a huff of annoyance, and Jaime took his opportunity, his attack lightning-quick, to knick the skin of her thigh. He was almost surprised to see that the blood bloomed red from the cut—he had almost expected it to be silver-blue and shimmering. </p>
<p>Brienne did not look down at her wound, she was too experienced a fighter for that, but shock widened her blue eyes. </p>
<p>“You’ll have to do better if you want to best me,” Jaime grinned.</p>
<p>The dance began again—sparks flying from their steel as the swords kissed and sprang apart and kissed again. Jaime’s breath came in harsh pants, his muscles burning as he gained and lost ground faster than he could keep track of. </p>
<p>Brienne winced as she put too much weight on her injured leg, bringing Jaime up short for a split second. It was a split second too long, as Brienne’s blade sliced into the skin above his eye. He barely felt it, unsure he would even have noticed if he didn’t have to blink the blood away. He recognised the wound for what it was: a warning. Such a blow could have been fatal—needing only a little more force and a slightly longer reach to have split skull as well as skin—but she had spared him. </p>
<p>That wouldn’t do. Jaime hated to admit she might just have the skill to beat him, but there was no bloodlust in Brienne, no killer instinct driving her to victory.</p>
<p>“You’re going to have to kill me eventually,” Jaime grunted. “It’s that or letting your little lady marry me.” </p>
<p>Brienne ignored him, gracefully side-stepping his two-handed attack and almost catching him off balance. </p>
<p>“You would really allow her to marry a man such as me?” </p>
<p>Steel flashed in the white sunlight.</p>
<p>“A man without honour?” </p>
<p>Steel sang amidst the ruins. </p>
<p>“A man who could never love her?” </p>
<p>Steel clashed with bone-rattling force. </p>
<p>“You would fail Lady Catelyn?”</p>
<p>Silence. Brienne seemed to freeze, her sword raised, poised to strike. </p>
<p>“After so many years.” </p>
<p>Silence. </p>
<p>“You would fail Lady Sansa?” </p>
<p>Silence. </p>
<p>Jaime tried once more, his breath coming hard, disturbing the almost unnatural stillness of the courtyard. </p>
<p>“You would break your oath?” </p>
<p>With a roar worthy of a lioness, Brienne charged forward, raining down blows that Jaime barely had time to block. The force of them nearly knocked Jaime to the ground. In the end, it was a swift kick that sent him crashing to his knees. </p>
<p>Another kick parted his sword from his hand, and then he was looking directly into Brienne’s startling blue eyes as she leant down, one hand fisted hard in his hair, forcing his face up.</p>
<p>“You know nothing about my oaths,” she hissed. </p>
<p>Jaime smiled.   </p>
<p>“Don’t I?” </p>
<p>It was Jaime’s turn to catch her off guard, as his fist met the wound on her thigh. She grunted in pain and fell to her knees, her grip loosening in his hair as he grasped for his sword again. He wasn’t quick enough as Brienne tackled him to the ground. </p>
<p>He allowed her to hold him down only for a moment before he flipped them, smacking her wrist against the ground to shake her sword from her hand. Her body was warm beneath him, the muscles of her thighs taut between his own. He should really have seen it coming when she reversed their positions again, wrenching her wrists from his grip. </p>
<p>Podrick was shouting something, but Jaime paid him no mind, too preoccupied with the woman currently pressing his face into the dirt. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and his breath punching hot from his lungs. Brienne was finally angry enough to let him die, and Jaime found that he suddenly wished to live. </p>
<p>Even as he fought against her grip, he was no match for Brienne’s strength, for her fury. He could feel the words bubbling up to his lips, his death sentence, <em>I yield. </em></p>
<p>As if she could read his thoughts, she stopped. Her hands came away from his wrists, from his face, and she sat up sharply, still astride him. </p>
<p>It was then that Jaime heard the laughter. </p>
<p>He turned awkwardly, Brienne still frozen in shock above him—there were fewer of them than he had imagined, the echo of the empty courtyard multiplying the cruel barks of their laughter. Still, the men were numerous enough to make Jaime’s already racing heart drop into his stomach. They were varied, too—dark-skinned Summer Islanders, blonde Lyseni, and at least one fat Dothraki. Above the cacophony, a sandy Dornishman shouted, </p>
<p>“The Kingslayer thought he could fight a dragon, turns out he can’t even fight a woman!” </p>
<p>The men broke out into fresh peals of harsh laughter, and Jaime realised with growing dread that he knew exactly who these men were. Jaime looked frantically for Podrick, and breathed a sigh of unearned relief when he realised that he and Brienne were positioned between his squire and the Brave Companions. </p>
<p>He’d heard whispers that the band were still at large in Westeros, taking advantage of an unguarded realm at peace. When his father had called the Bloody Mummers (so they were called by anyone who knew anything of them) to Westeros, Jaime had felt uneasy. The men were known neither for their honor nor their loyalty, and they had not been satisfied with their payment when Tywin Lannister had come out on top, with a granddaughter on the Iron Throne. Tywin had given them what he’d promised, not a copper star more—Jaime imagined they had not forgotten that particular slight. </p>
<p>A greasily goateed man held up a hand for silence, and the rabble gradually fell quiet. </p>
<p>“Our thintheretht apologieth for interrupting, Kingthlayer,” Vargo Hoat lisped. “We would never have intruded if we thought you were… engaged.” </p>
<p>Another wave of snickering began, and Jaime was suddenly painfully aware of their position. <em>We look as if they caught us fucking rather than fighting. </em>He was struck, then, by Brienne’s still very human shape. He used the hand hidden from view, to squeeze her thigh, and she glanced down at him. </p>
<p>Jaime could have screamed: why did she not transform? This rag-tag band of sellswords would be no match for the blue dragon’s flame. She met his eye as Jaime stared up at her, shaking her head minutely, seeming to know what he wished to say. </p>
<p>“Why not?” Jaime muttered, knowing they had mere seconds before the Mummers lost patience.  </p>
<p>“I can’t control it. I won’t turn back unless you beat me or you yield.” </p>
<p>“Then I’ll–”</p>
<p>“No! If you yield I’ll have to kill you too,” her eyes darted to where Pod still stood dumbstruck behind them. “Both of you.” </p>
<p>“We’re all about to die anyway.” </p>
<p>“Are you so craven? We might live.” Her bright blue eyes were so steely and determined that for half a second, Jaime believed her—his heart jumped with something that wasn’t fear. It was enough. </p>
<p>He nodded ever so slightly, and Brienne moved fluidly to her feet, reaching out a large hand to pull him up after her. </p>
<p>“I’m afraid if it’s the Lady Sansa you’re interested in, you’ll have to wait your turn,” Jaime said, casting his eye over the band from his improved vantage point. Three and ten—he, Brienne, and Podrick could take on three and ten. <em>Already tired, already wounded. </em>His eyes flickered to the gash on Brienne’s leg, and he prayed none of the Mummers had noticed it, so intent were they on gaping at her face. </p>
<p>“I did intend to take the Lady Thantha myself, though finding you here ith a pleathant thurprithe. Onthe I’m done with Lord Lannither’s thon, I’ll thelebrate by fucking Lord Thtark’s daughter.” Hoat spat, his beady eyes black with malice. </p>
<p>“There is no <em>taking</em> Lady Sansa, she is well protected.” </p>
<p>Something twisted in Jaime’s stomach as every eye turned to Brienne, and he fervently wished she hadn’t spoken. </p>
<p>“Who’s protecting her? You?” the Dornishman sneered, showing a mouth full of broken, browning teeth. “She’ll need better than one ugly bitch to keep us out.” </p>
<p>“We were promithed a dragon,” Hoat slobbered, looking skyward suddenly as if he imagined his words might have summoned one. </p>
<p>“And you found it.” Brienne stepped forward, and Jaime’s heart sank. <em>Stupid brave stubborn—</em></p>
<p>The roar of laughter that swelled up once again was rippled with violence, and a balding septon in soiled robes let out a shrill cackle, </p>
<p>“Look, Rorge! You will get to fuck the dragon!” </p>
<p>Brienne flinched, barely. Podrick stepped forward so he stood on Brienne’s other side. </p>
<p>“I—I think you should leave now,” Pod said, his voice surprisingly level, and Jaime felt a surge of pride and a sickening dread quicken simultaneously inside him. </p>
<p>The mirth dropped immediately from the septon’s face, and he broke away from the pack to approach Pod,</p>
<p>“How old are you, boy?” His voice was high and soft, slithering from his throat as his watery eyes raked over Podrick’s body. </p>
<p>“Seventeen.” </p>
<p>“Hmm… a little old for me, but you’re pretty enough. Be a good boy, stay quiet, and perhaps I’ll convince the others to keep you alive once I’m done with you.” </p>
<p>The septon’s fingers twitched as if to reach out and touch, but before he could raise his hand, his head was parted from his shoulders by the mighty swing of a Valyrian steel blade. Jaime’s own hand was tense on his weapon, his body primed to attack, but Brienne had beaten him to it—spots of blood now joined the blue freckles on her pale skin, and her eyes were hard as flint. </p>
<p>For a second there was no sound as both parties watched the septon’s corpse crumple to the ground before them. </p>
<p>“Leave the bitch for me,” Hoat said, as the sound of a dozen weapons being unsheathed filled the courtyard. “Kill the other two.” </p>
<p>Briefly, Jaime wondered when everything had become so simple—he would have relished fighting an enemy he truly wanted to defeat, if the situation weren’t so dire. </p>
<p>Try as he might to keep his eye on Podrick, on Brienne, Jaime soon lost sight of both, engaged as he was with lashing out on all sides, trying desperately to keep the Mummers at bay. He told himself to concentrate, that he could protect neither of them if he was dead. </p>
<p>It seemed an age of cutting and slashing and dodging before one of them finally fell; the Dornishman’s corpse slid from Jaime’s blade, and he felt his hands slip on the hilt, wet with blood. </p>
<p>For half a second—before the Dornishman’s place was taken by a monster with a missing nose—Jaime caught a glimpse of Podrick pulling his bloodied sword from a man’s chest.  </p>
<p>They had to be winning. Jaime felt as though he’d cut down twenty men in the last minutes or hours or days. As the noseless man gurgled his final breath Jaime finally looked up to see a courtyard littered with corpses. For a foolish moment he thought victory was theirs, until he caught sight of a writhing mass of limbs in the very corner of the courtyard. Brienne was pinned against the wall, her sword arm held in place by a stout Lyseni, while the other grappled with Hoat. Jaime had to get to her. He let the noseless corpse fall and stepped over the body towards where Brienne struggled against the grip of the men holding her. </p>
<p>A sharp pain in his ankle—Jaime’s left foot was whipped out from under him and he landed face first on the ice. Scrambling onto his back, Jaime saw the fat Dothraki standing above him, a whip in one hand and a gleaming arakh in the other. Jaime’s sword was kicked from his hand and sent skittering across the ice. </p>
<p>Desperate, Jaime pushed himself up on one arm and tried to reach for his sword again, only just catching the flash of the arakh out of the corner of his eye. The blade sliced through the freezing air and Jaime darted out of its path—</p>
<p>—not fast enough. </p>
<p>Hot cold pain lanced up Jaime’s arm, blood pouring from the black hole that had, seconds ago, been his hand. Jaime could only stare. The world was swimming, and sound was nothing but a faint buzz, a ringing in his ears. </p>
<p>The fat Dothraki still loomed above him, raising his weapon again, but before the arakh could complete its final, deadly arc, the Dothraki stopped. Jaime’s eyes widened as the tip of a dark blade emerged through woven armour, and the arakh clattered to the floor moments before the body of its wielder. </p>
<p>There was blood on Brienne’s mouth—<em>was she hurt?</em>—as she bent over Jaime, but her blue eyes were inexpressibly gentle. </p>
<p>“I’m sorry, Jaime,” she said softly, “this is going to hurt.” </p>
<p>Confused, he could do nothing more than watch as Brienne placed her palm over the space where his hand once was, and Jaime screamed. The heat of her was like new-forged metal, and he could swear he saw smoke rising from the place where skin met open wound. </p>
<p>Blackness was already beginning to creep into the corners of his vision as he looked down at the stump of his arm. Brienne removed her hand to show that the blood had stopped, the flesh charred but clean. </p>
<p>She looked almost as bad as he felt—the colour drained from her homely face as she swayed on her knees before him. </p>
<p>“How did you do that?” Jaime murmured, as the world grew dark around him. Her voice, when she replied, sounded like it came from a dream he’d had a thousand times before:</p>
<p>“Magic.” </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Awakening</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Brienne was dreaming again. </p>
<p>This time, her nightmares were nothing more than memories: the blood of the Mummers gushing over her sword arm as she hacked and slashed around herself. Even as they fell, they seemed to overwhelm her, blocking out the air and the sky with their rancid bodies. She wanted to break out, wanted to breathe again, to fly, but— </p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <em>My wings… where are my wings?</em></p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Look, I'm gonna be straight with you... there's barely any more plot at this point. It's just 25k of yearning from here to the end. </p>
<p>Also, if you do wish to read subtext into the Brienne/Sansa dynamic who am I to stop you. </p>
<p>Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Brienne was dreaming again. </p>
<p>This time, her nightmares were nothing more than memories: the blood of the Mummers gushing over her sword arm as she hacked and slashed around herself. Even as they fell, they seemed to overwhelm her, blocking out the air and the sky with their rancid bodies. She wanted to break out, wanted to breathe again, to fly, but— </p>
<p>
  <em>My wings… where are my wings? </em>
</p>
<p>She woke gasping, pulling air into her lungs as if she were on the verge of drowning. Her eyes were open, but she found herself, for the first time in years, unable to see the sky—instead of bright, clear blue there was only dark wood above her. She sat bolt upright, and almost screamed at the pain that rushed to her head. Her breath was still coming in harsh bursts, and she barely noticed the soft touch of hands on her back, until they were accompanied by a familiar voice: </p>
<p>“Breathe, breathe Brienne. You’re safe. You’re safe.” </p>
<p>Then that soft hand was beneath her chin, and Brienne turned with it to meet Sansa’s wide blue eyes. </p>
<p>“What—” she rasped, her voice croaked with sleep, “Sansa, how—what—you’re not hurt?” </p>
<p>The concerned wrinkle between Sansa’s brows disappeared, and she laughed softly. </p>
<p>“No, I’m not hurt. It’s over, Brienne. It’s done. We’re free.” Sansa brushed her thumb across Brienne’s cheek, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Brienne scarcely had time to process the enormity of the statement before Sansa’s face began to crumple. “You’ve been asleep for <em>weeks, </em>Brienne. I thought—I didn’t know if you would ever—” </p>
<p>Sansa’s eyes were shining with tears, and she gulped a deep breath in before launching herself into Brienne’s lap. Sansa’s arms were tight around Brienne’s neck, and her tears were dropping, warm, onto Brienne’s collarbone. </p>
<p>Uncertain, Brienne reached up to stroke Sansa’s hair with one hand, winding her other arm around Sansa’s small waist. The last time Brienne had held Sansa, they had been racing towards Winterfell, and Sansa’s body had been so tiny in Brienne’s arms. It felt odd, now, to hold and be held—Brienne was so unused to gentle touch that for a long moment she was overwhelmed by it. She tightened her grip ever so slightly, allowing herself to be comforted by the embrace, and breathed in the floral scent on Sansa’s hair. For so long, she had known nothing but the hard smell of ice in the air, or the choking stench of charred flesh and melted steel. She had almost forgotten, in the endless, barren cold, that meadows existed, and flowers grew in them. </p>
<p>Abruptly, Sansa pulled away. She settled herself on the edge of the bed, and mopped furiously at her eyes with the ends of her sleeves. </p>
<p>“Look at me, weeping all over you when I ought to be comforting you.” She slipped off Brienne’s bed, swiftly wiping away the last of her tears and gathering herself in a way that reminded Brienne sharply of Lady Catelyn. “You must want some food, some water.” </p>
<p>Sansa swept over to the door, calling down the corridor for broth to be brought as soon as possible, and Brienne began to look around her. The room looked just the same as her old quarters in Winterfell, but that couldn’t be possible. In fact, nothing about her current situation seemed possible, though there was no sign, save her own confusion, to belie its reality. </p>
<p>Sansa returned to her bedside and thrust a cup of water into Brienne’s hands: </p>
<p>“Drink all of that, please.” </p>
<p>Sansa watched, hands folded primly in front of her, as Brienne drained the cup. The feeling of cool water on her cracked lips was wonderful, though her head still pounded. Sansa took the cup from her hands and refilled it, passing it back with another stern look. Brienne drank that, too, and Sansa looked satisfied as she poured a third measure, this time leaving it on the table within Brienne’s reach. Suddenly, all the assertiveness from a moment before was gone, and Sansa looked strangely hesitant, eyes darting between the bedside chair and the bed itself. </p>
<p>Her hesitance confused Brienne—she and Sansa had known nothing but each other for seven years, and Brienne could not conceive of Sansa ever being uncertain around her. They understood each other beyond words, an awareness of each other that grew with them as they made the hard journey to womanhood together, even if one of them was hardly a woman at the time. Over the years, Brienne had heard every story Sansa could remember about her siblings, about being carried around on Robb’s back, or sweeping baby Rickon into her arms as he went barrelling towards something he shouldn’t. The easy physicality the Stark siblings shared had seemed alien to her at the time—Brienne had never been accustomed to affectionate touch, and the idea that Sansa should want to be close to her now was as surprising as it was welcome. So surprising, in fact, that Brienne did not know how to invite it. She settled for shifting slightly away from Sansa, making space for Sansa to sit beside her. </p>
<p>Sansa took the opportunity to sweep Brienne back into her arms, arranging them so that, despite the difference in their heights, Brienne’s head rested on Sansa’s chest. Sansa’s fingers brushed gently through Brienne’s thin hair, and Brienne felt her own eyes prickle with tears. She could not recall the last time she had felt so safe. Yet there was still a part of her that was wary, as if the room and the bed and the embrace could disappear at any moment. She wanted to catch it, to hold it close to her chest, to cherish it, but first she had to be sure it was real. </p>
<p>“Where are we?” she asked, half dreading the answer. </p>
<p>“Winterfell.” </p>
<p>Brienne’s heart sank. She should have known better than to hope—</p>
<p>“You should have seen it, Brienne,” Sansa continued, unaware of her companion’s distress. “I thought surely the courtyard must have been flooded, but the ice wasn’t melting; it was… dissolving into the air, like mist. It ought to have been terrifying, the tower collapsing under our feet, but it just felt peaceful, like we were floating all the way down. The mist was so thick when we landed that I couldn’t see Arya standing within arm’s reach. When it cleared, Winterfell was just as it had been before my mother died—it was as if the ice had been preserving it, protecting our home until the spell was broken.” </p>
<p>Brienne wanted to believe her. Everything about her surroundings felt so painfully real, from the intricate stitching on Sansa’s gown to the unrelenting pain in her head. Yet she still had so many questions, uncertainty writhing in her stomach as though she had swallowed a serpent. </p>
<p>“How?” Brienne asked, “How was the spell broken? He never beat me.” </p>
<p><em>Ser Jaime. </em>She remembered the blank look on his face as he stared at his bleeding stump. Or perhaps that was all part of the same awful dream—the dream full of blood and sweat and screams. She hoped so, for his sake. She didn’t want to ask. </p>
<p>Sansa’s mind seemed to be more pleasantly occupied, because a smile teased the corners of her mouth as she replied, </p>
<p>“He didn’t need to. You remember the words of the challenge, do you not?” </p>
<p>Brienne would remember those words until she was old and toothless and wizened, until she had forgotten her own name. </p>
<p>“Prove yourself in battle,” she recited. It felt odd to say the words alone, without the crackling of power behind them. </p>
<p>Sansa nodded. </p>
<p>“Precisely. They make no mention of you, specifically. A man might rise to such a challenge simply by defending Winterfell—defending me—against a group of rogue sellswords. I wonder—” Sansa paused, blushing, “I wonder sometimes if my mother knew all along this would happen. She created the challenges exactly as they are, so that he might best them.” </p>
<p>The almost reverent way her lips curled around that single syllable, <em>he</em>, made Brienne’s heart sink into her stomach. Every aspect of Sansa was touched with the soft glow of new love, and Brienne was still too sore, too tired, too confused to untangle the knot of feelings in her belly. She wanted to share in Sansa’s joy, and there was a part of her—a large part—brimming with happiness for her dearest friend, for this girl who had lived so lonely for so long. Nor could she deny that Ser Jaime was exactly the kind of knight Sansa had dreamed of. He was handsome, that was undeniable; the playful glint in his green eyes and the sharpness of his smile would have made him irresistible, even without his head of golden curls and the strong line of his jaw. Though there was certainly an arrogance in his manner, it took no great effort to see it for the facade it was; beneath the veneer of the Lion of Lannister, there was a man who cared deeply for those who had won his affection. The gentleness with which he treated his young squire was matched only by the chivalry he showed to Sansa herself. He was brave, skilled with a sword, and he had wished nothing from Sansa but to free her. </p>
<p>Yet it was that which troubled Brienne. She could still recall the bitter twist of his mouth when he had told her of his relationship with his sister, and she wondered if he had offered such honesty to Sansa as well—she hoped he had. Brienne remembered, too, the harshness of his voice when he spat that he would never love Sansa, <em>could </em>never love her. Though in truth, Brienne told herself, she suspected now that he hadn’t meant very many of the jibes he threw at her during that fight—he said what he did to rile her, to force her to fight back, to relieve her of the pain of trying to resist Lady Catelyn’s magic. It had worked, too. She ought not to judge him by what he had said in the heat of that battle. What man, after all, could look on Sansa Stark and not fall in love? She was gentle and beautiful and clever and kind—Ser Jaime would see that in due time, if he hadn’t already. </p>
<p>The thought ought to have comforted her, but there was still a hard knot of dread in Brienne’s stomach. </p>
<p>“You love him, then?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. </p>
<p>“It seems strange, doesn’t it? I hardly know him, yet I would rather grow old with him than anyone else in the world.” A pretty blush still stained Sansa’s cheek, but her words were not those of an infatuated young girl. “When I thought I would have to—when I thought it might not be him—it felt—I didn’t want to be free, if I wasn’t free to love him.” </p>
<p>Brienne felt her heart drop into her stomach, but she did her best to ignore it, pressing on:</p>
<p>“And he loves you?” </p>
<p>Sansa smiled. </p>
<p>“He has made no declarations, but his actions speak for him. I believe he does.”  </p>
<p>“Then you are married?” she asked, hoping Sansa could not hear the slight tremble in her voice. </p>
<p>“Not yet. It felt wrong to celebrate with you still—I wanted to wait.” </p>
<p>Tears were brimming in Brienne’s eyes again, though whether from joy or grief she could not say. </p>
<p>“For me?” she whispered, absently winding her fingers in the fabric of Sansa’s gown. </p>
<p>“For you,” Sansa confirmed, gently tugging on the strand of Brienne’s hair she was currently twirling around her fingers. Brienne smiled, though the knot in her stomach tightened. </p>
<p>“My father once told me he looked forward to presenting me on my wedding day almost as much as he feared it,” Sansa continued after a quiet moment. “I never imagined, then, that he wouldn’t be here to do so. I never imagined my mother wouldn’t be here to brush and pin my hair before the ceremony.” </p>
<p>Brienne took Sansa’s hand in her own, squeezing it gently. Sansa took an unsteady breath, and said, </p>
<p>“Brienne, would you give me away?” </p>
<p>The question took her aback, and for a moment she could see it—Sansa walking through the godswood with Brienne on her arm. Sansa would be a radiant bride, Brienne knew, the paleness of her skin and the copper sheen of her hair making her seem at one with the weirwoods around her. She imagined holding out Sansa’s hand for Ser Jaime to take, how he would smile at his lovely bride, warm green eyes sparkling. They were perfectly suited for each other, she thought, truly the knight and the maiden of song. Brienne had no place in that fantasy. She was only the dragon, and her part was done. </p>
<p>“I would be honoured,” she said, her voice trembling only a little, “you know I would—but would you not rather have Arya? Your family—” </p>
<p>Sansa cut her off swiftly, bringing their joined hands to her mouth, and placing a soft kiss on the back of Brienne’s. </p>
<p>“You are my family,” she said, firmly. “You have been by my side, protecting me and keeping me company and never once thinking about yourself. I couldn’t ask for as much as you’ve given me, even from my own flesh and blood. You’ve been my guardian for so long, it’s only fitting, and Arya agrees. If you don’t wish to, then of course I—” </p>
<p>“No!” Brienne exclaimed, wincing as the sound bounced off the stone walls. “I didn’t mean that I—of course I will, if that’s what you want.” </p>
<p>“I do,” said Sansa with a smile. Brienne smiled back, but she still couldn’t ignore that twisting feeling intensifying in her gut. She took a low, slow breath, closing her eyes to focus on the comforting breeze blowing in through the window. </p>
<p>“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be bothering you with all this so soon,” Sansa said, giving Brienne’s hand one last squeeze before letting go. “I’ll leave you to rest—your food should be up soon, but I’ll check the kitchens. If you need anything, there should be someone around to fetch it for you, and I’ll come back this afternoon.” </p>
<p>Sansa smoothed down the blankets of the bed, tucking them tightly around Brienne. </p>
<p>“And I will tell Jaime you woke, he’s asked after you a hundred times a day.” </p>
<p>Sansa smiled, raising her eyebrow a little in a way that would have seemed conspiratorial, if it made any kind of sense for her to look that way. </p>
<p>As the door closed behind Sansa, Brienne sank back into her pillow, exhausted from just a short few minutes of conversation. Part of her longed to fall back into slumber, but the crashing steel and gushing blood of her dream still echoed through her mind. Her stomach gave a loud rumble, and she was reminded of the broth Sansa had sent for, which had not yet arrived. She resolved to wait for it, eat, and try to rest again. </p>
<p>In the meantime, she tried her luck standing. Her limbs felt both light and leaden all at once, and not quite within her control. Still, she pushed back her coverings and swung her legs over the side of her bed, the stone floor alarmingly cold on her soles of her feet. The feeling grounded her, though, and Brienne pushed herself up gingerly up onto her feet. The blood rushed to her head, and she grasped the table for support as her vision slowly cleared, leaving her standing by her bedside, only slightly unsteady. There was a shallow basin on a table by the opposite wall, a brick of soap next to it, and Brienne suddenly felt the acute need to be clean. She took a few tentative steps towards the table, and found her legs had not forgotten how to walk. The water in the basin was, unsurprisingly, cold, but the shock was welcome as Brienne dragged first a wet cloth, then soap, then the cloth again, over sleep-warm skin on the back of her neck, under her arms, and between her thighs. Though she still longed for a real bath, she felt revived. </p>
<p>Her body was improving, but the air in her room was still stale, so Brienne walked carefully over to the window. White sunlight poured through the panes, and she lifted the catch of the window, pushing it outward to peer onto the courtyard below. Brienne could scarcely believe her eyes—it was exactly as Sansa had said, with everything just as it had been before the curse had been laid. Winterfell now bustled with life, from the stables to the training yard. She could see Arya sparring with Ser Jaime’s young squire, Podrick—they were both good, though Brienne suspected Arya had the edge. Podrick seemed to be holding back, perhaps because of Arya’s gender, or her size, or both; in any case, she was showing him no such courtesy, and as Brienne predicted, she soon had him on his back. He took the fall with good humour, allowing her to heave him back to his feet, laughing. </p>
<p>Brienne jumped when someone knocked gently on her door. Expecting a kitchen girl with her broth, Brienne called out, </p>
<p>“Come in.” </p>
<p>It was not a kitchen girl. </p>
<p>Ser Jaime stood in her doorway, looking at her as though she were an apparition. He seemed no less to her—just as irritatingly handsome as she remembered, though the arrogant sparkle in his eye and the sharpness of his smile were gone. So too, she knew, was his right hand, and she couldn’t help the way her glaze flicked down to his sleeve; where once she would have seen Ser Jaime’s sword hand, there was now merely space. For a split second, she could have cried. His strength, his fluidity, the surety and the confidence in his every strike had been a thing of beauty; she had always known his family to be proud and fierce, but it was not until she fought him that Brienne understood why people called him The Lion of Lannister. Now he stood in her doorway, plainly dressed in Northern garb, looking as though he regretted ever knocking. </p>
<p>“Ser Jaime, I—” </p>
<p>“Forgive me,” he said, “for disturbing you. Sansa mentioned you were awake and I—I just—wanted to check. I should leave you—” </p>
<p>“No—” Brienne started, attempting to cross the room in a few quick strides. Her body, however, had other ideas, and she made it only halfway before her vision blurred, and she stumbled. Instead of landing on the cold floor, Brienne found herself pressed against a warm chest, strong arms encircling her waist. </p>
<p>With her legs still half collapsed beneath her, her spinning head came to rest on Ser Jaime’s shoulder. He supported her with such apparent ease, that for a moment Brienne imagined this was how it must feel to be a maiden in a song—delicate and pretty and prone to fainting at the slightest inconvenience. She imagined this was how it must feel to be Sansa, to be the kind of woman Ser Jaime might—</p>
<p><em>Oh, </em>she realised, as her feet were swept out from under her, <em>I’m in love with him. </em></p>
<p>Brienne kept her eyes tightly screwed shut for the seconds it took Ser Jaime to cross the room. For those short moments, she could still imagine herself small and beautiful and loved, being carried—<em>carried</em>—in Ser Jaime’s arms, his warm hand curled around her thigh. </p>
<p>Brienne was suddenly intensely, embarrassingly aware that she was wearing nothing but her shift, and the heat of his palm against her bare skin felt almost excruciating until it was gone, and she was laid gently back down on the bed. As soon as she was out of his arms, she attempted unsuccessfully to pull her shift down to cover her legs. Ser Jaime’s teasing smile returned for a moment, causing a traitorous leap in Brienne’s heart. Frustrated, she schooled her features into her most mulish scowl and looked up at him again. </p>
<p>“That was unnecessary,” she said, arms crossed in front of her chest. </p>
<p>“I disagree,” Ser Jaime replied amiably, “if you’re going to swoon like a delicate maiden, it would hardly have been chivalrous for me to do otherwise.” </p>
<p>“I was not <em>swooning</em>—” she started, but he only laughed. The sound was low and melodious, and without the hint of bitterness that she remembered; he was happy, he must be, when her recovery heralded his union with Sansa. Brienne resolved to be happy for him.</p>
<p>She ought to congratulate him, she knew, but before she could force herself to form the words, the laughter faded from his face. </p>
<p>“I am happy to see you well, my lady. I was afraid that—” he frowned, and Brienne longed to reach out and comfort him. Instead, she tucked her knees against her chest, and waited for him to continue. “The maester said he didn’t know what was causing your long sleep. His only thought was that Lady Catelyn’s magic must already have been leaving you when you…” He waved his stump half-heartedly in the air. “He thinks that channeling her magic the way you did, when you were already weakened, must have taken an enormous toll on your body. I couldn’t—I was disturbed by the thought that you might have given your own life to save me.” </p>
<p>For a long moment, Brienne could not think of a single word with which to answer him. When they had spoken beneath the tower, he had been brazen even in his vulnerability, but as he stood before her now, Brienne felt she must tread gently with him. She smiled, trying not to show her crooked teeth, and said softly, </p>
<p>“Now you have seen that I did not, I hope you can occupy yourself with more pleasant thoughts.” </p>
<p>Ser Jaime nodded, smiling slightly in return. The nervousness had not left him, though, and he continued, </p>
<p>“I also wanted to apologise. What I said during the fight—I didn’t mean—” </p>
<p>“I know,” Brienne cut him off gently, “you said it to make me angry, to make me fight you properly. That doesn’t mean some of it wasn’t true.” </p>
<p>Ser Jaime looked as if he were about to protest, so Brienne continued, </p>
<p>“Loras certainly <em>is </em>prettier than me. Though you were wrong about going back to my island and marrying some ancient landless knight—there are none left in the Stormlands who will have me.” </p>
<p>He looked taken aback by her forthrightness, though his eyes were warm when they met hers.</p>
<p>“Would you—” Ser Jaime began, but a knock on the door interrupted him. This time it <em>was</em> the kitchen girl, holding a steaming bowl. </p>
<p>“I’ll take that,” Ser Jaime said, and the girl flicked her gaze down to his missing hand before she gingerly passed the bowl across to him, closing the door as she went. </p>
<p>He set the bowl carefully on the table next to Brienne’s bed, though a small amount still spilled onto his hand, which he withdrew with a soft hiss. </p>
<p>“I’m afraid I’m quite useless now,” Ser Jaime said, bitterness colouring his voice. </p>
<p>“It’s only been a few weeks. Your left hand will improve with time.” </p>
<p>He huffed a mirthless laugh. </p>
<p>“You are kind, my lady, but I will never be what I once was. I was the greatest swordsman in Westeros, and little else. I must resign myself to it.” </p>
<p>Something hot and angry bubbled up in Brienne for the first time since she had awoken:</p>
<p>“You have lost a hand, Ser, not anything else,” she snapped, though she regretted it instantly when he flinched. She continued more gently, “You believe the world has a poor opinion of you? You can give up, if you like, and prove them right—the Kingslayer got what was coming to him. Or, you can pick yourself up and try again; they cannot but respect you for that.” </p>
<p>Ser Jaime shook his head. </p>
<p>“On the contrary, they can and they will laugh at an old, one-handed former swordsman, trying desperately to regain his former glory.” </p>
<p>“You are not so old,” Brienne shrugged, “nor so afraid of mockery. I thought lions were supposed to be brave.” </p>
<p>“Certainly not so brave as dragons,” he said, softly. Brienne could feel herself blushing, though she could not turn her face away to hide it—she could only hope that Ser Jaime would not notice. He continued as if he did not: “But perhaps you are right.” </p>
<p>“I know I am,” she said, sitting up a little straighter. “When I am rested, I will show you—if you don’t object to being schooled by a woman.” </p>
<p>Joy and regret curdled in Brienne’s belly. Why had she offered to spend such time with him? She remembered too well the feeling of him on the ground between her thighs, the thrill that had run through her body when his eyes had met hers in the heat of battle. She remembered how she had once wanted to be close to Renly, how she desired nothing more than to be near him. Yet every moment with him had been torture, unable to touch him but to put on his armour, never truly knowing him despite spending every day in his presence. This would be worse, she knew—she had never been as close to Renly as she had been with Jaime on the day of their duel, she had never known Renly’s secrets the way she knew Jaime’s. For a moment, she hoped he might refuse, but he only smiled that soft, devastating smile, and said, </p>
<p>“It would be an honour, my lady. It’s good to have something to look forward to.” </p>
<p>Brienne frowned. </p>
<p>“Apart from the wedding, you mean.” </p>
<p>Jaime grinned broadly, the expression lighting up his countenance. </p>
<p>“Yes, the wedding! Who would have thought? I really couldn’t have dreamed of a better ending—I suppose that will teach me not to be such a cynic.” </p>
<p>Brienne ought to smile back at him, she ought to congratulate him and ask how preparations went, but all she could manage was a meagre, </p>
<p>“Yes, I suppose it will.” </p>
<p>He must have heard the heaviness in her voice, because his posture straightened, and he looked towards the door. </p>
<p>“I should not have kept you for so long. Sansa told me not to come yet, she’ll be cross with me when she finds out.” He smiled, and Brienne’s heart cracked. “Now, you need to eat and you need to rest.” </p>
<p>“I need a bath,” Brienne said petulantly, and Jaime nodded. </p>
<p>“I will have one sent up for you, my lady.” </p>
<p>His sharp, teasing smile returned for a second as he pointed to the bowl beside her:</p>
<p>“Eat that first, otherwise you’re like to faint in the tub. I would hate to have to pull you out.” </p>
<p>He closed the door quietly behind him, leaving Brienne staring at the space he had vacated. She took a long, deep breath, and her despair rushed in with it. She had hoped—a foolish hope, a girl’s hope—that when Sansa was finally freed, when the curse was broken and order restored, that she might have gained… something. She expected no reward, no magical cure for her mannish body or her ugly face, but she had always quietly hoped that by the time she was back in the body she had despised for so long, she might have found some power, some knowledge that would finally let her live in peace. </p>
<p>Instead, she had found herself exactly where she had been at eighteen—an ugly woman, in love with a beautiful man, who was going to be married to another. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Maiden, Cripple, Knight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Again and again Jaime relived that brief, bloody battle in the courtyard. He lost his hand a thousand times, watched Brienne die before him, watched the Mummers cut down Podrick until Jaime could no longer remember what was a memory and what was a nightmare. When he finally woke, groggy and reaching for blue-scaled skin with a hand that wasn’t there, he was alone.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>We're going back in time for this one: what happened in the weeks Brienne was asleep?</p>
<p>This is essentially just 10k of Jaime feeling his feelings and I'm not even a little bit sorry.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Jaime awoke, he was burning. </p>
<p>The pain in his hand was excruciating, lancing up his arm and shaking through his body. He sat up abruptly, though there were voices telling him to lie back down. He was in too much pain, he had to find the wound, had to staunch the bleeding, stop the fire, but—his hand was no longer there. He remembered in a sudden flash: the heat and the blood and the shock of seeing his hand separated from his body. How could something no longer a part of him cause such agony? The world swam in and out of focus: he seemed to be in an unfamiliar room, large but sparsely furnished. Days and nights came and went, but oddly—Jaime could not tell when one ended and another began. A maester was speaking to him, but he could make no sense of it. Sometimes Podrick was with him—Jaime would reach out with his good hand and Pod would take it, squeezing gently to let Jaime know he was not alone. Then the maester was back, and tipping his head back to pour heavy, bitter milk of the poppy down his throat. Jaime tried to protest, but he was already slipping back down into the darkness. </p>
<p>The drugged sleep was no better—the poppy might prevent his pain, but it could not keep the dreams at bay. Again and again he relived that brief, bloody battle in the courtyard. He lost his hand a thousand times, watched Brienne die before him, watched the Mummers cut down Podrick until Jaime could no longer remember what was a memory and what was a nightmare. When he finally woke, groggy and reaching for blue-scaled skin with a hand that wasn’t there, he was alone. </p>
<p>He lay for what felt like hours before Podrick quietly let himself in. In his weakened state, Jaime could not hold back the tears of relief at the sight of his squire, who crossed the room in quick strides to clasp his good hand again. </p>
<p>“Ser—Ser Jaime it’s alright. I’m h—here. All is well.” </p>
<p>“And Brienne?” </p>
<p>“Alive, ser. We’re all alive.” </p>
<p>Jaime allowed himself to fall back onto his pillows, wincing at the throbbing in his wrist, and the ache in his head. Pod let go of Jaime’s good hand to pick up a cup and a vial from Jaime’s bedside. </p>
<p>“The m—maester told me to give you this when you awoke. Milk of the poppy—for your pain—and water.” </p>
<p>Jaime reached for the cup with his right hand, only to realise he had no hand with which to reach. He stared at the bandaged stump, suspended in mid-air. <em>So it wasn’t just a nightmare. </em>They may have all survived the battle, but they were not all whole. </p>
<p>“The m—maester says you are healing well,” Pod stammered. “Brienne’s magic stopped infection from t—taking hold.” </p>
<p>Jaime remembered the blistering heat of her palm, the concentrated furrow between her brows as she swayed where she knelt, almost as spent as he. He looked down at his stump again, and wished she’d never helped him; it would have been better if she’d let him bleed out onto cold stone. But she was far too noble for that. <em>Besides, </em>he thought bitterly, <em>if I die, so does her lady’s chance of freedom. </em></p>
<p>Until then, he’d quite forgotten about Lady Sansa. He supposed she must be free, if he and Pod were still breathing, though how that was possible he couldn’t have guessed. </p>
<p>“Pod, how—” </p>
<p>“Drink this, ser,” Pod insisted, offering the water and the vial once again. This time, Jaime held out his left hand to take the cup of water, gulping it down greedily. Pod took the cup from him and proffered the vial, but Jaime pushed his hand away. </p>
<p>“No. I’d rather have the pain. Tell me where I am—have I been insensible for so long?”  </p>
<p>“You are at Winterfell,” Pod said, as he replaced the vial with a frown. “It has been three days.” </p>
<p>“Three days?” It could not be so short a time. It had felt like weeks. </p>
<p>“You broke the spell, Ser Jaime,” said Pod, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Lady Sansa and Winterfell are yours.” </p>
<p>Jaime could only stare at him, disbelieving. </p>
<p>“Oh.” </p>
<p>Pod seemed confused by his lack of enthusiasm. </p>
<p>“I know you said you n—never wanted Winterfell, but Lady Sansa is—”</p>
<p>“Yes, she’s very good and very beautiful, I’m sure. But a prize one never wanted does lose some of its appeal when one has paid such a high price for it.” He held up his stump again, but far from being sympathetic, this time Pod only scowled at him. </p>
<p>“She asked to be informed as soon as you woke. Would you rather I not tell her?” His voice was low and strained, and Jaime could not think what he had done to offend the boy. If Jaime was bitter, it was understandable. Pod had no such defence. </p>
<p>He sighed. </p>
<p>“No, Podrick. Tell her if she wishes to know. I may as well start getting used to the idea.” </p>
<p>Pod said nothing, but stood sharply and strode towards the door. He closed it behind him with a little slam, and Jaime sighed. Why now, of all times, was his squire choosing to exercise the teenage sullenness he had so long avoided? Had he truly expected Jaime to celebrate? </p>
<p>He slid back down into the soft bed, hoping for sleep to take him again, but he knew it would be no good. His stump throbbed, and already there were too many questions whirring in his head to allow enough peace for sleep. He raised his shortened arm again, and stared at the white bandaging where his hand had once been. It looked so entirely wrong—he could still feel the tips of his fingers, they should still curl on his command, but there was only space and stillness. He had walked into Winterfell as Ser Jaime Lannister of Casterly Rock, the Kingslayer, the greatest swordsman in Westeros; he had hoped to die that way. Instead he lay weak and shaking, dreading the idea of becoming Lord Jaime Lannister of Winterfell, a cripple, his body good for nothing but conveying his head from room to room. </p>
<p>To his horror, Jaime felt tears pricking at the backs of his eyes, and he squeezed them shut before any could fall. <em>You’re already a cripple, you need not be a weeping child as well. </em>The voice in his head sounded eerily like his father, and Jaime supposed that at least <em>someone </em>would be happy with how things had ended. Cripple or not, Tywin Lannister’s son was going to be Lord of Winterfell.</p>
<p>The creak of the door opening drew Jaime’s gaze, and Lady Sansa poked her dainty head around it. She smiled when she saw him, and Jaime did his best to smile back, though he knew he was far from convincing. She slipped quietly into the room, careful, as if she would disturb him if she made any sound. </p>
<p>“It is good to see you awake, Ser Jaime,” she said, still hovering near the door, rather than taking the seat Pod had been occupying. </p>
<p>“It is good to be awake, my lady,” Jaime agreed. “Milk of the poppy does not agree with me.” </p>
<p>Sansa frowned. </p>
<p>“The maester says you ought to keep taking it, for the pain.” </p>
<p>“Your maester would have me insensible. I can bear the pain. I am a <em>knight</em>, after all, or had you forgotten?” Jaime said, more sharply than he had intended. Sansa only stood up straighter, though her voice was cool when she replied, </p>
<p>“Still, you need rest, ser. I will leave you to your recovery.” </p>
<p>She swept from the room before he could respond, but he could not bring himself to care very much. <em>Leave me alone with my bitterness, Lady Sansa, it is better for us both. </em>Doubtless he would regret it later: Jaime could live with a wife he did not love, but it would do neither of them good for her to despise him. She did not deserve to be punished for his pain. </p>
<p>To Jaime’s surprise, Pod did not return, preferring to leave Jaime to his bitter musings. For the rest of the day, Jaime was visited only by the wizened old maester, who unwrapped Jaime’s arm to reveal the stump beneath. Jaime had seen battlefield amputations before, yet still the sight surprised him. He had to turn away at the sight of the gathered flesh, his wrist sewn shut with crude stitching. The maester seemed much happier with it, declaring the wound to be healing well, and applying a thick salve before he wound Jaime’s arm back up in fresh bandages. He, too, insisted on milk of the poppy, but Jaime refused him, more forcefully than he had Pod or Sansa. The man had merely shaken his head, muttering about misplaced pride as he shuffled out of the room. </p>
<p>Perhaps, Jaime decided, sleep was better than waking. He lay back on his pillows, surprisingly drained by his first short day of wakefulness. There were still a thousand questions that had gone unanswered, and part of him wanted to stay awake, just in case he had another visitor, but sleep claimed him quickly. If Jaime dreamed, he remembered nothing of it. </p>
<p>When he woke, he was still alone. His stump still throbbed, and his mood was still dark, but his head felt clearer than it had done the previous day, and he felt a pang of guilt for the way he had spoken to Pod and to Lady Sansa. As if thinking of her had summoned her, Lady Sansa opened the door quietly, slipping into the room with a steaming bowl. </p>
<p>“Good morning, Ser Jaime. Have you been awake long?” she asked, her tone consciously even and polite. </p>
<p>“Hardly any time at all. Did I sleep long?” </p>
<p>“All of yesterday afternoon, and through the night. It is morning now. I brought you breakfast.” </p>
<p>She held out the bowl, and Jaime once again reached for it with a right had that was no longer there. He drew back, embarrassed, but Sansa made no comment, only waited for him to take it with his left. The porridge was thick and sweet, and Jaime found himself hungrier than he had realised. He was still, however, uncomfortably aware of Sansa sitting at his bedside, so he left the meal to warm his lap and turned to her. </p>
<p>“Forgive me for my harshness yesterday. I was angry at my loss, not at you.” </p>
<p>“It is forgotten, ser. I have been distracted and worried myself—I should have recognised your grief, instead of leaving you alone,” Sansa replied. Her words and her smile were kind, but tension still lay thick in the air between them, uncomfortable. What was he to say to this girl who was supposed to be his bride? He settled on, </p>
<p>“What has been distracting you, my lady?” </p>
<p>To his surprise, Sansa’s eyes sparkled with tears, and she looked down suddenly at her hands, wringing in her lap. </p>
<p>“Brienne fell unconscious after the battle, and she is yet to wake. She has no injuries that should cause such a long sleep, yet nothing we do will rouse her. The maester says it must be—that it is likely related to the breaking of the curse, that she will surely wake soon, but I worry nonetheless.” </p>
<p>It felt wrong even to imagine—Brienne was not a woman made for stillness. She was meant to move and dance and fight. The thought of her lying quiet and pale, the stark blue of those tiny scale-freckles even more pronounced against her skin, made him sad in a way he could describe. But this was not his grief to own, he reminded himself, Brienne was nothing to him, and everything to Lady Sansa. Jaime’s role was to comfort. </p>
<p>“I’m sure the maester is correct,” he said gently, “but it must be difficult.” </p>
<p>Sansa only nodded, turning her face away from Jaime to hastily wipe away an errant tear that had escaped to run down her cheek. Jaime pretended not to notice, taking a spoonful of porridge, though he found his appetite suddenly diminished. </p>
<p>She did not stay much longer that morning, nor any morning after. For the next sennight, she and Podrick shouldered most of his care, ensuring that he ate and changed his bandages with a regularity that—he was ashamed to admit—he would not have achieved alone. Though he diligently returned to Jaime’s side, Pod remained cagey and sullen, giving Jaime no hint of what had upset him on that first morning. </p>
<p>As if seeking to frustrate Jaime yet further, Podrick always fled the room immediately when Sansa arrived, keen to leave them alone. Sansa, however, didn’t seem to share the sentiment—afraid, perhaps, of the awkwardness that seemed to descend as soon as Jaime and Sansa were alone together—and would often linger when Pod showed up to take over from her, asking about his sparring with her sister. If Jaime could be thankful for anything, it was that Sansa never stayed too long at his bedside; Pod mentioned nervously that much of her time was taken up caring for Brienne, which Jaime could not grudge her. </p>
<p>If he was being honest, Jaime much preferred Sansa’s silence to her attempts at conversation. She was ever courteous and polite, but Jaime never felt truly comfortable in her presence. Perhaps it was the sense of approaching doom he always felt when he looked at her, though he knew such feelings were ridiculous. His was a prize that many men would die for, and Lady Sansa deserved better than to suffer his half-hearted attentions for the next several decades. </p>
<p>By the seventh day of his confinement, Jaime’s chamber felt like a cage, himself a circus animal trapped there for others’ pleasure. He paced around the room, ignoring the throbbing pain in his arm and the lightness of his head. This was not a problem he could fight his way out of; even if it was—his vision was already beginning to swim—he was no longer a fighter. He had lost the hand that made him who he was, and exchanged it for a prize he had never wanted. When stars began to burst before his eyes, Jaime allowed himself to slump against the wall, sucking in slow breaths to try to clear his head. It was no use. When the room came back into focus, there was no less of a cacophony in his mind. </p>
<p>One voice, however, was clearer than the others. While his own worries and questions and condemnations chased each other like so many frenzied dogs, a memory, as vivid as if she were speaking in that mystical way she had, drowned them out: <em>I’m sorry, Jaime. This is going to hurt. </em>She was right, and more than anyone else, Brienne would understand the pain of an unwanted duty. Then again, she was more likely to condemn him for betraying Lady Sansa with his callous refusal to love her; she hadn’t spoken of it, but Brienne’s devotion to her lady was plain in her every action. </p>
<p>He would visit her, he decided, already reaching for a fresh shirt. It was a struggle to dress himself one-handed, and he couldn't say he entirely succeeded in making himself presentable. Still, it was only Brienne he wanted to see, and she was not awake to judge his appearance. </p>
<p>Jaime lingered for a while in front of her closed door, asking himself what he was doing there. There was nothing to do but wait, Sansa told him, and it was hardly his concern in the first place. Still, he wanted to be sure, wanted to see her chest rise and fall, see the flush of life in her cheeks, convince himself that she was only sleeping. It would be such a waste of potential, he told himself, if she died now. Her skill with a blade was almost a match for his own, and he had wanted to spar with her again, free from the crushing pressure of their first encounter. </p>
<p>He could hear her voice ringing through his head: the truths she refused to let him run from—<em>people only hate you because you want them to—</em>and the challenges she forced him to face. <em>Are you so craven? </em>she had asked from atop him, the fine strands of her hair tickling his cheek. Jaime remembered thinking that they must have looked like lovers. </p>
<p>She had given her last scrap of strength to save him, and still he selfishly wanted more from her. He needed to hear her surprisingly gentle voice, to look into those astonishing eyes and see nothing but honesty in them. Doubtless she would tell him that he deserved none of her pity, that he ought to do his duty or accept the consequences of his cowardice, and she would be right. </p>
<p>He took a deep breath, and pushed open the door. </p>
<p>“Oh, Ser Jaime.” Sansa’s voice startled him, and he almost let the door slam shut again. </p>
<p>“Lady Sansa—my apologies for intruding. I only wanted to check on—but I see she is well taken care of.” </p>
<p>Brienne lay on a large bed, looking for all the world as if she were sleeping peacefully. Yet there was something eerie about the scene. Perhaps it was the complete stillness of her features—she looked so young when she wasn’t scowling at him—or the way she was laid out like a corpse, rather than curled on her side or splayed across the bed as if in a natural sleep. Far from being comforted, Jaime’s heart sank as he took her in. </p>
<p>“That is very thoughtful of you, ser.” Sansa’s words were courteous, but her heart was not in them. </p>
<p>“Please excuse me, Lady Sansa, I will leave you to your—” </p>
<p>“No, stay,” Sansa blurted as Jaime made to leave. “I have been neglectful of you. I ought to be—I mean we ought—I have been distracted.” </p>
<p>“Quite understandable, my lady. You are worried for your friend.” The language of courtesy had always come easily to Jaime, but he had never been comfortable with it. Every word he had spoken since he regained consciousness had felt half a lie, tiptoeing around the subject that neither he nor Sansa seemed prepared to broach. He had hoped, after her first stilted visit, that she might refuse him. Her uncertainty and her blushes now spoke to an unwelcome alternative—if she desired his company, Jaime had no way to rebuff her. She seemed to struggle with what to say next, and Jaime felt his heartbeat start to pound in his chest, willing her not to ask anything of him that he could not give. </p>
<p>“<em>Friend </em>seems too weak a word for what Brienne and I are to each other,” she said eventually, and Jaime let out a relieved breath. “I have had no company but hers for the last seven years—she has been a friend and a sister and a mother to me when I thought I lacked all three. To have Arya back now is a blessing I never dared to dream of, but it has been so long since we last saw one another. We are so different now, and we were hardly friends as children.” Sansa looked guilty even as she spoke, and she rushed to explain: “I did not even <em>need </em>to speak with Brienne—we understood each other so completely that no words were necessary. To be without her is like…” </p>
<p>Sansa trailed off, her eye darting to where Jaime’s right hand should have been. </p>
<p>“Missing a limb?” Jaime guessed, and Sansa coloured. </p>
<p>“Yes. Forgive me, ser. I am being silly. I did not mean to compare—” </p>
<p>Jaime shook his head, </p>
<p>“There is nothing to forgive, my lady.” </p>
<p><em>I understand all too well</em>, he did not say. He would not invoke Cersei’s ghost in this place, but he couldn’t help recalling the emptiness he had felt when he lost her. She had been slipping away, piece by piece, for years before her death, becoming more and more of a stranger, but the final separation had left Jaime feeling hollow and directionless. He, too, would have said it felt like the loss of a limb, if he did not now know better. </p>
<p>But Brienne was not lost. Not yet. </p>
<p>“You are too kind,” Sansa said. “I know I have other duties now, as Lady of Winterfell; I cannot sit here every hour of the day, waiting for her to awaken.” She stood up suddenly, brushing out invisible creases in her skirts. “Would you walk with me, Ser Jaime? Join me in seeing how Winterfell improves?” </p>
<p>Jaime forced his face into a bland smile, and nodded his head, stepping aside so she could exit the room before him. She allowed herself a final, worried glance at Brienne before she swept past him. Jaime lingered for as long as he dared, his gaze fixed on the almost imperceptible rise and fall of Brienne’s chest. <em>She is alive. That was all you needed to know. </em></p>
<p>He let the door close quietly behind him, as if the noise of its slamming would disturb her, and hurried to catch up with Lady Sansa. He felt awkward already, not helped by Sansa placing her hand, ever so lightly, on his right arm as they walked. He covered her small hand with his own, as he knew he should, but the touch of her skin on his own felt sordid and wrong, even in this small way. At eighteen, the softness around Sansa’s face was still present, despite her willowy frame, and Jaime was painfully aware of it. His son would have been older, had he lived, than this slip of a girl Jaime was supposed to marry. </p>
<p>They passed through the castle’s corridors in silence, though Sansa seemed on a few occasions to want to speak. Jaime knew that he should speak, too, but could not think of a single thing to say that was neither flippant nor tedious. His brother would know what to say—Tyrion had always been good at making people laugh, whereas Jaime was too sharp, always cutting where he tried to be comical. </p>
<p>Sansa seemed to draw herself up when they reached the courtyard, with people bustling happily around. The general air was one of celebration, and the Lady of Winterfell was aware of it. Jaime watched in wonder as her expression went from nervous to serene, and she seemed to stride with larger steps across the flagstones. Jaime did his best to follow her lead, putting on a blandly happy expression as Sansa took him on a tour of the quickly growing settlement. </p>
<p>Though the castle as a whole had survived Lady Catelyn’s ice, the wooden structures in the courtyard had not fared so well—it had seemed a barren wasteland when he and Brienne had fought. But now, structures were being erected all around him. Shouts filled the air, calling for aid or for more wood or for a tankard of ale. The people of Winterfell were rebuilding, and there was a joy in the rushing of people to and fro. </p>
<p>Sansa was the very model of a lady—she introduced every worker they came across by name, and asked after their business. Jaime couldn’t help remembering that Cersei had barely known the names of the maids who had attended her every day: <em>one of many reasons she was not fit to be queen. </em>Jaime nodded along, doing his best to be friendly with the people of Winterfell, who in turn were friendly with him. They were so pleased to have their Lady back, and with good reason, that he was met with more smiles and good humour than he ever had in King’s Landing, or even at Casterly Rock. </p>
<p>It ought to have cheered him, and in some ways it did. But he was painfully aware at every moment that Sansa was introducing him as the people’s future Lord, as her future husband. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, Jaime mused, as Sansa led him towards the stables: they made a good team in public, and that seemed to be all that mattered in many noble marriages. But he still could not shake the overwhelming feeling of <em>wrongness </em>when he thought of his other duties as husband, and a good show did not often make for a good marriage. Robert and Lyanna had been the perfect symbol of the realm: the rebel king and his liberated queen. But in the privacy of the keep there had been nothing but secrets and resentment. </p>
<p>Someone shouted his name from across the yard, and Jaime started. He looked over to see Lyarra sprinting towards them, her skirts flying wildly. </p>
<p>“Ser Jaime! Ser Jaime you are well! Grandmother and I have been so worried but we didn’t want to—oh! Lady Sansa, my apologies I—I—” </p>
<p>She sank into a low curtsey, and Sansa glanced at Jaime out of the corner of her eye, amused. </p>
<p>“I don’t believe we’ve met,” finished Sansa for her, motioning for Lyarra to rise. </p>
<p>“This is your Maiden, my lady,” Jaime said, and Lyarra blushed. “It was she who taught Podrick the song that moved you so. Lyarra and her grandmother were kind enough to house us during our stay in Winter Town.” </p>
<p>“It is an honour to meet you, Lyarra,” Sansa said, and Lyarra grinned, exposing the wide gap between her front teeth. </p>
<p>“The—the honour is all mine, Lady Sansa,” replied Lyarra, as if she were trying terribly hard to remember exactly the right words to say. Jaime had forgotten quite how charming she was. </p>
<p>“Has your grandmother accompanied you to the castle?” Jaime asked, “I believe I promised to have her installed in the kitchens if I succeeded in my quest.” </p>
<p>Lyarra giggled. </p>
<p>“She needed none of your help, Ser Jaime. She has installed herself, and become a tyrant of the oven.” </p>
<p>Both Jaime and Sansa laughed at that, and Lyarra looked pleased with herself. </p>
<p>“I’m not surprised,” Jaime said. “I’ll have to go down and visit her soon.” </p>
<p>“You can, but she’ll have you kneading bread within a minute.” </p>
<p>“I look forward to it.” </p>
<p>Lyarra gave one last smile and one last deep curtsey, before pelting back across the courtyard to where a gaggle of excited girls accosted her with questions. </p>
<p>“You’re very good with her,” Sansa observed, and Jaime shrugged. “You really stayed at their home while you were in Winter Town?” </p>
<p>“We did indeed. I wanted to stay at an inn, truth be told, but Podrick would not allow me to turn their offer down. He was right to, of course.” </p>
<p>Sansa smiled at that, but he could tell it was false. The expression fell quickly from her face and all at once she looked distracted. Had he disappointed her with his confession? She would have to get used to such disappointments if they were to be wed, he supposed. As chivalrous as Sansa might think him now, Ser Jaime Lannister was not known for his kindness and humility.</p>
<p>He did not have to think too hard on it for much longer. They had completed their circuit of the courtyard, and Jaime pled tiredness and an ache in his stump. As they said their stilted goodbyes, Jaime noticed how Sansa’s eye was drawn to the window of Brienne’s chamber. </p>
<p>“Do not worry yourself too much, my lady,” he said, impulsively. “I’ve never known anyone as strong as your dragon. There are few men who could best her, and none with her mettle, nor her loyalty. I think she would fight the Stranger himself if he tried to take her away from you, and she’d win.” Sansa gave a weak, but genuine smile at that. It was the first honest thing Jaime had said all day. “If you have other matters to attend to, I would gladly watch over her for you.” </p>
<p>For a second, Sansa looked as if she might refuse, but then she nodded. </p>
<p>“That is very kind, Ser Jaime, thank you.” </p>
<p>That morning was the beginning of a far more pleasant routine. Their daily walks around Winterfell, checking in with the smallfolk and observing the rebuilding, gave Jaime and Sansa something to talk about, and their uncomfortable silences grew fewer and fewer. They still skirted around the subject of their assumed betrothal, so Jaime was caught off guard when—six days after they began their walks—she requested that Jaime meet her in her solar that evening. The afternoon passed with distressing speed, and Jaime’s heart was in his mouth when he knocked on her door, not knowing what to expect on the other side.  </p>
<p>Sansa was standing by the round table in the centre of the room, one hand resting on a dark wooden chair, as if to steady herself. She smiled nervously at him as he entered. As much as he was dreading this meeting, it was already so different from how he had pictured it, with Sansa all excitement and energy, planning a wedding for a bridegroom who could not share her feelings. Instead, Sansa looked almost frightened of him, and Jaime found he liked the idea of that even less. </p>
<p>“Good evening, Ser Jaime. Please sit,” Sansa gestured to the chair she was still holding in a white-knuckled hand. “Would you like some wine?” </p>
<p>On any other day, Jaime would have declined, thinking of Cersei’s flushed and angry face, or Tyrion growing maudlin over the course of an evening. Now, however, seemed like the perfect time to break his usual rule. He took his seat and nodded at Lady Sansa, </p>
<p>“Thank you.” </p>
<p>She poured the wine in silence, setting it before him with a little more force than was necessary before she took her own seat opposite him. It was plain that she was nervous, and Jaime felt a pang of sympathy for her. He knew his lukewarm affections were unconvincing, but he had not thought what effect that would have on Sansa herself. She was the one, after all, who had waited seven years for her knight to rescue her—she must have dreamed of a handsome youth who would sweep her off her feet and into his loving arms. To find herself seated opposite a cripple who paid her only the most cursory attention must have been as torturous for her as it was for him. </p>
<p>“Ser—” Sansa began as Jaime said, </p>
<p>“So—” </p>
<p>They both stopped speaking abruptly, and Jaime cleared his throat. </p>
<p>“After you, my lady.” </p>
<p>In truth, he had barely known what he was going to say—some meaningless platitude, no doubt. It was easier to let her speak, even if he dreaded every word out of her mouth. </p>
<p>“Forgive me, Ser Jaime. I had meant this to be a pleasant evening, or at least as pleasant as it could be. But I find I am too—I cannot sit and talk of nothing when I have so much I need to say. Please excuse my bluntness, but I cannot dress it up in pretty words.” </p>
<p>She sounded more distressed with every word, and Jaime instinctively reached across the table to take her hand. She allowed it, and gave his hand a brief squeeze before she drew her own away. </p>
<p>“Go on,” said Jaime, as gently as he could manage. Sansa took a deep breath. </p>
<p>“I always—I always thought my mother had worded the spell so precisely. I thought surely only a man I loved, a man who loved me in return, would be able to break it. Perhaps that was naïve. I know she—I know she and my father grew to love each other slowly, and I have no reason to doubt that you would be a good husband to me, but I—I find that I cannot take that chance. I cannot marry without love. And I do not love you, ser.” </p>
<p>Her voice was firm, but Jaime could see her hands trembling, and he remembered Cersei telling him once—bitterly—that nothing was more dangerous than a man whose attentions had been spurned. Unlike Sansa, Jaime himself felt nothing but relief—the vice that had been tightening around his chest with every passing day had been loosened by her words, and Jaime could not help but smile. </p>
<p>“I’ll not condemn you for that, my lady,” he said softly, and Sansa finally met his gaze with hopeful eyes. </p>
<p>“Then I was right to suspect you do not love me either?”</p>
<p><em>Am I that poor an actor? </em>Jaime wondered, giving Sansa a wry laugh, </p>
<p>“You were, my lady.” </p>
<p>He wanted that to be the end of it, but the nagging thought remained—Lady Catelyn had laid her curse for a reason, and she had not been a woman to be gainsaid, either in life or death. But before Jaime could voice his concern, Sansa spoke again. Her hands had ceased their shaking, but her voice, this time, was soft and unsteady:</p>
<p>“Then dare I—dare I hope that the spell was broken another way?” </p>
<p>Jaime frowned, </p>
<p>“Another way?” </p>
<p>“By another man,” Sansa explained. “One who may not have intended to win my heart, but who has won it regardless. You said yourself, ser, it was he who chose my lemon cakes, who gave me the gift of the song. If Arya will allow us to consider her the third gift, she told me it was his words that convinced her to return with you. And he proved himself a hundred times over against those awful sellswords. Is it not possible that he could be...” </p>
<p>There was a hesitance in her tone, as if she feared he might contradict her, might know some secret that would dash her hopes, but all Jaime could think was, <em>of course. </em></p>
<p>After years of arrogant knights and empty gestures, Jaime could see why Sansa would be drawn to Podrick. He might never have been a confident young man, but he had always been kind. In the last few years, Pod had turned the heads of a few serving girls at Casterly Rock with nothing more than a gentle word and a soft smile, not that the boy had ever noticed. </p>
<p>Now he thought of it, Jaime didn’t know why he hadn’t realised himself. The way Sansa would linger in his rooms whenever Pod came to visit, and the unusual harshness with which Pod had spoken to him regarding the lady—both should have alerted him. The way they danced around each other must have been obvious to anyone with eyes—anyone but Jaime, who had been too busy stewing in his own misery to notice. </p>
<p>“It is more than possible, my lady. My squire is more worthy of you than I could ever hope to be.” </p>
<p>
  <em>My squire. I should have knighted him years ago. </em>
</p>
<p>“And do you think he might—” Sansa ventured. </p>
<p>“You’ll have to ask him yourself, though I’d wager you’ll be happy with the answer.” </p>
<p>The smile that broke over Sansa’s face was like the rising sun. </p>
<p>“I think it’s time you put us all out of our misery,” Jaime said, and Sansa nodded, already looking half distracted. </p>
<p>“I should go to him now—no, I should wait until morning—no, I will get no sleep.” With every change of her mind, Sansa took half a step towards the door, only to pause and change direction, fluttering about the room like a bird. “Ought I to bathe? That will take too long, he’ll be abed before I am ready. I must change, though—I should wear my best dress.” </p>
<p>Jaime knew he ought not to mock her—Sansa’s excitement was, in truth, very sweet—yet he could not help himself saying, </p>
<p>“So you didn’t put on your best dress to tell me you don’t love me? I’m hurt.” </p>
<p>Sansa spun to face him, her expression suddenly sharp, though she could not help the smile still curling at the corners of her mouth. </p>
<p>“You’re very aggravating, did you know that?” </p>
<p>Jaime smiled, remembering an irritated glint in too-human blue eyes, and the way smoke had curled from her nostrils in wisps—a warning. </p>
<p>“It’s been implied.” </p>
<p>Sansa only looked him up and down before she waved a fluttering hand at him: </p>
<p>“Go, ser, be free. I have to—” she cut herself off, already fiddling with the braids in her hair. </p>
<p>“With pleasure, my lady,” said Jaime. There was a lightness in him as he rose and made to leave, almost unable to believe things might have worked out so neatly. <em>Almost like a song. </em>A thought struck Jaime then, and he turned back to Sansa to say, “Take your time. There is something—I would like to speak to him myself, first.” Sansa frowned at him, and he rushed to clarify, “I won’t tell him what we’ve spoken of.” </p>
<p>Sansa seemed confused, but she nodded her approval anyway, and Jaime bowed—only half mocking—as he left. It brought him more pleasure than he had imagined, to have her trust. She was an idealistic girl, but not naïve, and Jaime respected her. Besides, the kind of woman who inspired such loyalty in Brienne was surely one whose opinion should be valued. </p>
<p>Jaime tooks the stairs down to the courtyard two at a time, though he ridiculed himself with every step. He hadn’t believed in True Knights and destiny since he was a boy, since before the Mad King had taken everything he thought he knew and showed it to be nothing more than a child’s fantasy, and a foolish one at that. Yet he couldn’t help but feel, for the first time since Arthur Dayne had touched Dawn’s blade to his shoulders, that he had the chance to do something wholly good. This was not his song—Jaime was glad of it—but if Sansa and Podrick’s names were going to become legend, then there was something he needed to do first, something he should have done a year or more ago. It was only his selfish love for the boy that had stayed his hand. </p>
<p>He found Podrick in the training yard, exchanging blows with Lady Arya. Though she remained cool towards Jaime, she had taken to Podrick instantly, and the pair were often to be found rattling around the yard when Arya was not rattling around the newly erected armoury, getting under Gendry’s feet. Jaime couldn’t help but notice that Pod had improved since he’d last seen the boy train; a little of Arya’s fluid style suited him, and Jaime paused for a second to watch as Pod feinted slightly to the left—a favourite trick of Jaime’s—before taking advantage of Arya’s distraction to bring his blunted blade up to her throat. </p>
<p>“Yield?” he asked, grinning. </p>
<p>“I yield,” Arya grumbled, pushing his blade away with an irritated huff. </p>
<p>“You’re doing me credit, Pod,” Jaime called as he let himself into the fenced yard. Both Pod and Arya jumped at the sound of his voice, Arya scowling while Pod frowned at him. </p>
<p>“I thought you were dining with my sister this evening, Ser Jaime,” Arya said, her tone more than slightly frosty. </p>
<p>“I was indeed. I must say it was a far more pleasant evening than I imagined.” Jaime struggled to hold back a smile as Podrick did battle with his own expression, trying and failing to keep his features blank. “However, it has been brought to my attention that I have been remiss in my duties. A good squire is hard to come by, but a good knight knows when it is time to let him go. The gods and the realm know I am not a good knight, but I should have done better by you. I mean to rectify that now, if you will allow it?” </p>
<p>“Ser I d—don’t understand. You’ve always been good to me.” </p>
<p>“Not in these past years, Pod. I selfishly kept you by me, instead of giving you what you have long deserved.” Jaime drew his sword only a little clumsily, “Would you kneel?” </p>
<p>Pod’s jaw dropped, and he sank to one knee with a questioning look, as if he couldn’t quite believe the evening had taken such a turn. Arya, by contrast, looked delighted, and Jaime wondered if she had already realised the full extent of what was occuring. </p>
<p>Left hand shaking only slightly, Jaime touched the flat of his blade to Pod’s shoulder. </p>
<p>“In the name of the Warrior,” he said, his voice steady and certain, “I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to protect the weak, and defend the innocent.” Pod’s eyes were shining when Jaime took the sword from off his shoulder. “Arise, Ser Podrick Payne, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms.” </p>
<p>Awe was writ large over Pod’s face, and Jaime’s heart swelled with pride. To his surprise, he felt no grief at the loss of a boy who was more his son than Joffrey had ever been. Instead, he let Pod’s happiness wash over him. He had avoided doing the right thing for so many years, afraid that every good action must be born of sacrifice and pain. But the man he had been when he rode into Winterfell was not the man he was now, and he was better for it. </p>
<p>He was not so wrapped up in his thoughts, however, that he did not notice the shift in Pod’s expression—no longer looking at Jaime, but past him. Though his joy was still plainly visible, there was something nervous in his face as well, and Jaime turned to see Sansa standing just behind him. Her “best” dress was one of delicate spring green, trimmed in white and silver. Jaime had never paid much attention to the fashions of ladies at court, but he could see how the colours complimented her pale skin and her fine auburn hair. She had taken it down from the elaborate braids she had been wearing all day, leaving most of it to tumble around her shoulders. <em>Have pity on the poor boy, </em>Jaime thought, looking back to where Podrick was still staring as if she was the Maiden come to earth. </p>
<p>Sansa herself looked half hopeful, half terrified. She opened her mouth to speak but only took in a quick, hard breath. Composing herself, she tried again: </p>
<p>“Congratulations, Ser Podrick. A well deserved honour.” </p>
<p>“Th—thank you, my lady,” Pod said, in barely more than a whisper. The two of them seemed hardly aware that other people were present, and Jaime exchanged a brief, knowing look with Arya. </p>
<p>“I would—that is, if you can spare a moment, there is a matter I should like to speak with you about,” Sansa continued, all her usual poise and composure slipping away by the moment. </p>
<p>Pod only looked confused. </p>
<p>“Me, my lady?” </p>
<p>“Yes.” </p>
<p>Pod tore his eyes away from Sansa to stare at Jaime, looking for his approval. Jaime smiled, giving Pod’s shoulder a gentle squeeze as he passed him. Jaime watched as Sansa led Pod away, back towards the castle, and felt lighter than he had in decades. Without his hearing her approach, Arya was at his side. </p>
<p>“Is that conversation about what I think it’s about?” she asked, raising an eyebrow suggestively. </p>
<p>“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean,” Jaime replied, failing to hide a grin. Arya gave a gleeful shout, and Jaime winced as her tiny fist hit his arm. </p>
<p>“I knew it! Pod did just as much as you in the challenges, and she <em>obviously </em>liked him. I kept telling her, but she wouldn’t listen, just kept moaning that it was <em>her </em>fault Brienne was still asleep, that it was a punishment for not loving you like she ought. I thought it was rubbish, but Sansa said Pod hadn’t been trying to win her hand, so how could he be the one to break the curse? That was stupid too, since you weren’t ever <em>really </em>trying to win her hand either.” </p>
<p>“What?” </p>
<p>“I said you weren’t <em>really </em>trying to—” </p>
<p>“No, the part about Brienne.” </p>
<p>“Oh.” Arya’s brow crinkled in distaste. “It was stupid—Sansa thought the reason we couldn’t get Brienne to wake up because she didn’t love you. She’s supposed to marry the man who breaks the curse, but she didn’t want to marry you. She had this theory that Brienne wouldn’t wake up until she could force herself to love you somehow, or marry you anyway, because the curse wouldn’t truly be broken until she did.” </p>
<p>It was as if Jaime could see the pieces falling into place—Sansa’s odd behaviour in the last weeks, oscillating between distracted distance and courteous attention, had been the product of her desperation to save Brienne. He would not waste time chastising himself—for the second time that evening—over his failure to notice the suffering of others, when there was now a far more pressing issue at hand: </p>
<p>“Is there a chance she could have been right?” Jaime asked, and Arya shrugged. </p>
<p>“I don’t know. I suppose so?” </p>
<p>There was only one way to find out. If Sansa and Podrick were righting the wrongs of the last unbearable weeks as they spoke, then Brienne should be waking. She shouldn’t do so alone, and Jaime gave Arya his distracted thanks as he jogged back across the courtyard. </p>
<p>He slowed his pace as he mounted the stairs and made his way down the corridor to her room. There was no need to get excited, he told himself, it was only an idea of Sansa’s. In all likelihood she would lie on the other side of that door exactly as she had been for the past fortnight. The frantic beat of his heart had everything to do with climbing several flights of stairs, and nothing to do with nervous anticipation. He paused for a moment in front of her door. He could hear nothing but the usual quiet from within, and he tried not to feel disappointed as he pushed the door open. </p>
<p>Brienne was lying just as she had been that morning, still and pale and quiet. Jaime slumped into the chair at her bedside, staring blankly at the starkness of her freckles against her skin. The blue scales had almost all disappeared, leaving ordinary brown flecks in their place, but a small cluster remained vivid and iridescent on her cheek, reminding all who looked on her that she was mythic. </p>
<p>“Everyone’s happy, Brienne. You’re spoiling it,” Jaime said. “Your lady has found a better knight than I, and set me free. Will you not wake up to congratulate us?” </p>
<p>Brienne stayed stubbornly asleep, so Jaime continued, </p>
<p>“Are you waiting for your own knight, my lady? I find myself going spare—if I kissed you now, would you awaken? Probably not, you’re far too stubborn for that, and I doubt you ever needed rescuing.” </p>
<p>He knew it was no more than a child’s fancy, but Jaime couldn’t help wondering if her too-plump lips would be soft against his own, if she would open those impossibly blue eyes and look softly up at him. More likely he’d get a fist to the face for his efforts, and one of her ugliest scowls. Perhaps it would be neither, only a blush and her begrudging thanks. He absent-mindedly brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, her skin cool and surprisingly soft. </p>
<p>The door opened again, and Jaime jerked his hand back, like a child caught doing some mischief. Sansa and Podrick stood in the doorway, Sansa gripping Pod’s hand nervously; he still looked slightly shell shocked, a disbelieving smile spread wide across his face. Sansa seemed hardly to notice Jaime’s presence, her gaze going straight to Brienne, before she deflated with a sigh. </p>
<p>“I thought perhaps—” </p>
<p>“I know. Arya told me.” </p>
<p>Sansa shook her head, trying to hide the tears that were threatening to spill. </p>
<p>“It was stupid of me. The maester said it was likely because of—something else.” Sansa refused to meet his eye. “But I still—I still thought…” </p>
<p>“What does the maester say it is?” Jaime was hardly enamoured of the doddering old man, but his knowledge was surely greater than that of a maiden girl and an aging knight. Sansa clearly did not wish to answer him. <em>Is the truth so awful? </em></p>
<p>“He says that the curse was likely broken when she used her magic to stop your bleeding,” Sansa said eventually, her voice small and trembling. “If that is so, then the magic would already have been leaving her, and helping you—it would have drained her faster than was safe. He says we can only wait for her to recover her strength, if she ever does.” </p>
<p>“She’s like this because of me?” </p>
<p>“It was her choice, Ser Jaime, one I am sure she would make again.” </p>
<p>“Aye, I’m sure she would,” Jaime said bitterly. He rose from the chair and began to pace around the small room, too full of frustrated anger—at himself for causing this, at Brienne for being a martyr, at Sansa for telling him—to remain seated. “Too noble for her own good—she should have left me to bleed, men have survived worse. She cannot die for me—I was unworthy of it before and even less so now.” </p>
<p>“You are too hard on yourself, ser—”</p>
<p>“Why should I live if she has to suffer for it?” Jaime spat, vicious. Pod glared at him and wound a protective arm around Sansa’s waist, but she only smiled gently at Jaime. </p>
<p>“Oh.”</p>
<p>“What?” Jaime snapped. </p>
<p>“There are very few men, Ser Jaime, who would turn down a young bride and great castle, unless they had good reason to do so. Unless… unless they were in love with another.” </p>
<p>It took Jaime a couple of moments to realise what she was implying—surely Sansa couldn’t know about Cersei? Jaime hadn’t loved his sister that way for years, but nor had he loved any other woman. It was only when the frown dropped from Pod’s face, and his eyes grew wide as he looked from Jaime to Brienne—still blissfully unaware of her three visitors—that Jaime’s heart leapt into his throat. </p>
<p>He wanted to brush off the suggestion, to make some quip that would send them both from the room with an irritated sigh, but he could only stare. </p>
<p>“If you don’t mind, Ser Jaime, I will take supper with Ser Podrick, this evening. I see Lady Brienne is well taken care of.” Sansa closed the door on him with an insufferable smile, leaving Jaime alone and utterly bewildered.  </p>
<p>He looked back to Brienne, lying so quiet and so still, as if there was no tempest raging through Jaime as he tried desperately to suppress the softness welling up within him at the sight of her. That couldn’t be love. There was surely no comparison to be made between his passion for Cersei, and his admiration of Brienne. <em>Would I kill for her, if she asked it of me? </em>The question hung in his mind for only a second before he knew the answer: <em>she would never ask. </em></p>
<p>He had never thought to love again; he barely knew what it was to love in a way that didn’t twist and burn and tear him apart. He had always thought the stories must be wrong: true love was not gentle or patient or understanding, it was hard and insistent and hurting, it was what he had with Cersei. But that was not the kind of love that had broken Lady Catelyn’s curse; Pod and Sansa were so careful with each other, tender in a way he could barely fathom, and Jaime found himself longing for the same gentle affection, reaching for Brienne even as he thought it. He imagined the feel of her strong arms around him, her long fingers brushing through his hair. </p>
<p>As soon as the realisation settled—<em>I love her</em>—another crowded into his mind, just as inescapable as the first: <em>she will never love me. </em>How could she, after he had told her, so boldly, all his most sordid secrets? After he had taunted her as they fought, trying to goad her into killing him? She might have wanted to save his life—she was too good to condemn him entirely—but she hadn’t thought he was worthy of Lady Sansa, that much was clear. </p>
<p>It was childish of him, but Jaime couldn’t help remembering the dream he’d had beneath the weirwood. She had been human in the dream, though he’d only ever seen her in dragon form. He had given her a sword in the dream too, the twin to his own, wreathed in blue flame. It had to mean something, he thought, but chastised himself almost immediately; songs and great destinies weren’t made for men like him, he’d learned that long ago. They were made for people like Sansa and Pod, people with goodness in their hearts, not the mess of duty and thwarted honour that beat off-rhythm in Jaime’s chest. Cersei had tried so hard to convince him they were worthy of it too, that they were born together and they would die together, but in the end she had died alone and friendless in a bed of her own making. No, he was not made for destiny, but he had always been made for devotion, and he could prove that to Brienne, even if he could not prove he was worthy of her. </p>
<p>Resolved, but still reeling, Jaime felt the weight of the day crash down on him. That morning seemed like another world, one in which he was still supposed to marry Sansa, and he couldn’t put a name to the uncomfortable longing that drew him to Brienne whenever he had the opportunity. Sunset had come and gone while he sat by Brienne’s bedside, lost in thought, and it was time to retire. He placed a gentle kiss on Brienne’s forehead as he left, closing the door quietly behind him. </p>
<p>The sennight following was equal parts joy and torture. Sansa officially announced her betrothal to Podrick, to the surprise of almost everyone in Winterfell; Jaime himself was the recipient of more than one pitying glance that day, though he could not complain about the basket of sweet cakes that Maggie sent up to him as a consolation gift. No one asked him why he stayed, thwarted though he had been in pursuit of Lady Sansa’s affections, but he could hear them thinking it, and he laughed often at their misplaced sympathy. There was a lightness in his step and he walked the corridors of Winterfell, and the sight of Pod and Sansa walking side by side, their fingers laced together, never failed to bring a smile to his face. </p>
<p>Their routine remained much the same, with Jaime spending his afternoons in Brienne’s chambers, waiting for any sign of life. Those hours seemed endless, and though he wanted to stay with her, to guard her as she had guarded Sansa all those years, he could not stand the waiting, and the hopelessness that filled him at the end of each day that passed with no progress. Jaime had preferred it when he didn’t know he loved her; then he could pretend the knot of worry in his stomach was nothing more than friendly concern. </p>
<p>On the morning of the eighth day after he realised he loved her, Jaime was watching Arya teach Pod another water dancing maneuver—only slightly bitter—when Sansa came pelting into the training yard. Her face was flushed and she had hiked her skirts up around her knees in her haste. Sansa was grinning broadly, and it was Jaime’s gaze she sought as she staggered to a halt. </p>
<p>“She’s awake!” </p>
<p>Jaime barely waited until Sansa was out of sight before he was climbing the stairs to Brienne’s chamber. He had spent so many hours sitting by her bedside, thinking of what he would say to her when she awoke—if she awoke. Yet as soon as he opened the door to her chamber, all words seemed to desert him. </p>
<p>She was standing at the open window, wearing nothing but a thin shift which left most of the endless length of her legs exposed. Rendered translucent by the sunlight streaming in through the window, the shift did little to conceal the shape of her body beneath it. There was little that could be called womanly in her form—her shoulders were broad and muscled, her waist thick, the curve of her breasts barely visible—yet knowing the strength coiled in those muscles sent a shiver of arousal through him. It was instinct, when she swayed and stumbled, to catch her in his arms. He held her there for a moment, feeling her warm breath on his neck, before he lifted her into his arms; she was heavy and solid, but her skin was soft where he gripped her thigh, and Jaime could swear he felt her shiver, heard her breath hitch as he placed her gently back on the bed. </p>
<p>Later, Jaime would remember the way Brienne fled his embrace as if his touch had burned her, how the softness had disappeared from her too-expressive eyes. As he had stumbled through apologies and self pity, she had still been honest and kind, but she was distant, somehow, too, as though she had wrought invisible armour for herself when she could not wear plate. She had been a vision only moments before—standing half undressed in the sunlight—but the warrior had taken over all too swiftly. <em>There is a maiden’s heart beneath that armour, </em>he would think<em>, and she does not trust me with it.  </em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. The Wedding</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Brienne recovered with a speed that was surprising to everyone but herself. She longed to feel the sweet burn of exertion in her muscles, even if she could no longer feel Lady Catelyn’s power thrumming beneath her skin. She felt oddly fragile, now, in a way she had never thought she would; the magic had always felt too large for her body—the only thing that ever had—but now she felt its absence like a wound.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Well... this is it gang! I can't believe I'm posting the final chapter. </p>
<p>Not to be earnest or anything but thanks so much to all of you who have been reading and commenting so far! I hope you've enjoyed this ride as much as I have &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Brienne recovered with a speed that was surprising to everyone but herself. She understood that her unnaturally long sleep must have been frightening, but it left her with no injuries, only a weakness in her limbs from lack of use. She longed to feel the sweet burn of exertion in her muscles, even if she could no longer feel Lady Catelyn’s power thrumming beneath her skin. She felt oddly fragile, now, in a way she had never thought she would; the magic had always felt too large for her body—the only thing that ever had—but now she felt its absence like a wound. </p>
<p>With every hour she spent trapped in her rooms, Brienne despised herself a little more. She was too weak to resist Sansa’s pleas that she rest another day—just one more—too weak to keep the promise she had made to Ser Jaime on the morning she awoke. She would keep it eventually, she told herself, she would don her boiled leather and venture down into the courtyard. She would help him learn to fight again. But for now she hid from him, telling herself that her affection for him was nothing but a passing fancy. She had been taken aback by his honesty regarding the Mad King, honoured to be taken into his confidence; she had been impressed with his prowess on the battlefield, and the courtesy with which he treated Sansa. <em>Sansa</em>. Sansa, who was going to marry Ser Jaime in a sennight. Sansa, whose happiness had been Brienne’s only concern for the last seven years. Sansa would be happy with Jaime, and Brienne would discard her own feelings, as she always had. </p>
<p>Perhaps if she could just have one more day, one more night to dream of how safe she had felt in the cradle of his arms, the shiver that had passed through her when he touched her bare skin, she might be able to face him and feel nothing but gentle affection for her Lady’s betrothed. Even as she thought it, she knew it for a craven lie. But she had never fled from pain before, and she would not do so now. It had been three days since she had awoken, and she had felt well enough for two of them. It was time. </p>
<p>Lyarra was waiting outside Brienne’s room as always, embroidering something more delicate than Brienne could ever hope to achieve. Though Brienne had told her many times that her presence was not required, the girl refused to move somewhere more comfortable, and had instead built herself a sort of nest where she sat with her linen and her thread, waiting to tend to Brienne’s every need. Ser Jaime had insisted, apparently, though he had not been to visit her since the day she awoke. </p>
<p>Lyarra sprang to her feet as Brienne opened that door, smiling her crooked smile—sweetly crooked, endearing rather than ugly as Brienne’s own was. </p>
<p>“Would you tell Ser Jaime that I am feeling recovered enough to commence his training?” Brienne asked, trying to mask the uncertainty in her voice. “Tell him to meet me in the yard in half an hour, if he is free to do so.” </p>
<p>Lyarra bobbed a quick curtsey and sped off down the corridor, leaving Brienne to regret her haste. But there was no going back, now. In half an hour she would see him again: golden and beautiful and betrothed to the woman Brienne loved most in the world. </p>
<p>He waited for her in the training yard, with sunlight glinting off the gold of his hair. He looked nervous at her approach, and Brienne wondered what cause a man like that would have for such nervousness. He had been different, admittedly, when he came to her that first morning—he had lost his easy arrogance, spoken in starts, and teased her hardly at all—but she hadn’t imagined it would last long. She found herself missing the sharpness of his smile as he greeted her and asked earnestly if she was sure she was well enough to spar with him. </p>
<p>“Ser Jaime, if I go another day trapped in my room I will run mad. Do you wish to have that on your conscience?” Brienne asked, and her heart gave a traitorous leap as he smiled back at her.  </p>
<p>“Never, my lady.” </p>
<p>“Besides, I made you a promise. So we can help each other, can we not? You need to train with your left hand, and I need—” <em>to overcome these unwelcome feelings, to become accustomed to your presence. To be near you. </em>Jaime was looking at her expectantly, and Brienne could only mutter, “I need to get out of my rooms.” </p>
<p>He looked as though he wanted to comment on that, so she quickly held out her hand, gesturing for him to give her his right arm. He did so wordlessly, and she examined the dressing over his stump. The cloth bandages were not ideal, but they would do, and she told him so: </p>
<p>“This should hold for today, but a leather covering would be better.” </p>
<p>“You plan to make use of my right arm?” Jaime replied, surprise colouring his voice. It was then that Brienne noticed how close they were standing; she could feel the warmth of his breath, smell soap and leather on his body. She dropped his arm faster than she had meant to and stepped back. </p>
<p>“Sansa says it is healing well,” she blurted, and realised immediately it was the wrong thing to say. Jaime’s expression darkened, and a too-familiar bitterness laced his voice as he replied, </p>
<p>“Yes, that’s what everyone says, though I don’t see how it can be true. I have taken wounds in battle many times, but when they were healed, I was as whole as I had been before.” </p>
<p>“You are whole now,” Brienne insisted, but Jaime only looked down at the abrupt ending of his right arm, disgusted. “Your loss is a great one, Ser Jaime, but—” </p>
<p>He seemed hardly to hear her, too caught up in his own misery. <em>Perhaps it was a mistake to offer him this. Perhaps he isn’t ready. </em>Eventually, his eyes met hers again, utterly unguarded for a rare moment. His devastation was plain, but there was a longing there, too, a desperation for her to understand: </p>
<p>“I <em>was </em>that hand.”</p>
<p>She understood; as a warrior herself, how could she not? Part of Brienne wanted nothing more than to gather him in her arms, to hold him as he had held her, to comfort him, yet even as the thought entered her mind, she knew it was not the way to help him. Instead, she stood up a little straighter and said, </p>
<p>“I was a dragon. You think I don’t miss my wings?” </p>
<p>It was more honesty than she had planned on giving him, and as she said the words, she felt the absence of those blue wings sprouting from her back, the strength with which they beat the air to take her higher and higher. <em>If I had my wings I could fly away from all of this.</em> </p>
<p>Jaime stared at her for a long moment before he steeled himself, his jaw tightening as he raised his chin and nodded once. Brienne shrugged her shoulders—ridding herself of the phantom wings she could still half feel between her shoulder blades—as she moved to examine the blunted tourney swords that were arranged haphazardly in the corner of the yard. As she picked up each blade, testing its weight and balance, she said, </p>
<p>“On Tarth, I saw many sailors climb their rigging quite easily with a hook in place of a hand.” </p>
<p>Jaime gave a surprised laugh. </p>
<p>“You think I ought to give up knighthood entirely for a life at sea?” </p>
<p>His voice was light and teasing, but Brienne could still hear the strain beneath it. She elected to ignore him, picking up and putting aside too-heavy blade after too-heavy blade. </p>
<p>“There is a Dornish combat style,” Brienne continued, “where the fighter holds a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. It is fast and fluid, much like your own.” Finally, she drew out a slim bastard sword, light enough for Jaime’s weaker left side. “I imagine we could adjust such a style slightly to allow for a sharpened hook attached to your right arm in place of a dagger.” </p>
<p>Brienne dared to think that Jaime looked impressed with the idea. </p>
<p>“I’ve seen the style, though usually the fighter holds the dagger in his off hand.” </p>
<p>“The purpose of the dagger is defence of your side, so as long as we can get you competent with a sword in your left hand, I don’t see why it shouldn’t work.” She held the sword out to him, hilt first, and he took it in his left hand, testing the weight. “But I think we ought to start with just the one weapon for today.” </p>
<p>He assumed a fighting stance, a challenging gleam in his eye. She had not intended to begin by sparring, hoping to manage a few drills to get his body used to doing familiar movements as in a mirror. Re-training him with his left hand was much more than simply changing his grip—he would need to adjust footwork that had been second nature to him for decades, and learn to defend his vulnerable right side as he had once defended his left. She told him as much, but he only rolled his eyes. </p>
<p>“I am not a green squire, you need not drill me like one,” Jaime said, irritated. He took a step forward—with his wrong foot—but Brienne rebuffed his attack with ease, and tapped the flat of her blade against his ribs. </p>
<p>“Your right side is open,” she said, bluntly. It would not do to crow over him, but nor would it help to be overly soft. Jaime frowned, and attacked again. Again she parried and slapped the flat of her blade against his right side. </p>
<p>His next attack was better thought out; Jaime stepped forward on his left foot, keeping his right side out of range of her riposte. But shifting all his weight onto his left side unbalanced him, and Brienne was able to land a blow across the front of his torso as he righted himself. </p>
<p>“Don’t need to be drilled like a squire, Ser Jaime? Your squire could do better than this.” </p>
<p>As soon as the words left her mouth, she feared they were too harsh, but rather than the anger she expected, Jaime only smiled. </p>
<p>“Of course he could. That’s why I knighted him.” </p>
<p>“Truly?” Brienne asked, though she was hardly surprised. The boy had done well against the Bloody Mummers, and there was a quiet confidence in him despite the hesitancy in his speech. She stepped forward for another attack, which Jaime parried—too weak, but well placed enough that Brienne allowed it to shift her blade away from his body. His eyes flashed with victory, and he smiled as he said, </p>
<p>“Lady Sansa could hardly marry a squire.” </p>
<p>Brienne must have misheard. </p>
<p>“What?” she asked, as he made his counter-attack, barely bringing her blade up in time to block it. </p>
<p>“Perhaps it was pointless,” Jaime continued, not noticing her shock as he attacked again. “The boy will be Lord of Winterfell in a sennight.” </p>
<p>None of what Jaime was saying made sense. </p>
<p>“He’ll be—” she began, only to feel the sudden <em>thwack </em>of a blade against her waist. </p>
<p>“Your left side is open,” Jaime pointed out, too pleased with himself. “I hope you’re not trying to let me win again.” </p>
<p>“Never,” Brienne replied, lunging forward in an attack that he only just managed to dodge. “I was merely distracted.” </p>
<p>“And I took advantage,” Jaime replied. “I find it works whichever hand holds the sword.” </p>
<p>“What did you mean about Podrick?” Brienne asked as she batted away Jaime’s swing, following with another of her own, more forceful than she intended. He stumbled backwards as he replied, </p>
<p>“I meant what I said. The boy has deserved a knighthood for well over a year, and it would surely make a better song for the pair of them.” Jaime stumbled again, nearly losing his footing as he attempted to keep Brienne at bay with weak parries, but he kept talking through it all. “Lady Sansa could hardly marry some squire from a lesser branch of a lesser house. If he was a knight—” </p>
<p>He finally lost his balance, sprawling onto his back before her. Brienne did not hesitate before following him to the ground, trapping him beneath her as she pressed her blunted blade to his throat. She expected him to look cowed, ashamed of himself, angry with her, but instead he was grinning up at her. </p>
<p>“I yield, my lady,” he said. There was heat in his gaze, but no anger, and Brienne’s frustration only grew. </p>
<p>“Sansa is to marry Podrick?” she demanded, not removing her blade from his throat. It was the only conclusion she could draw, as ridiculous as it was. </p>
<p>“Yes!” Jaime replied, confused now. “Did she not tell you?” </p>
<p>Brienne withdrew her sword and let it drop to the ground beside her. She found she could not speak, only replay Sansa’s words in her head. Sansa had never mentioned him by name, Brienne was certain, but perhaps—no—no, Brienne couldn’t have known the truth, this truth that seemed like a dream. She only shook her head, mutely, and Jaime pushed himself up into a seated position. As he shifted beneath her, Brienne suddenly found herself sitting in his lap. He was so close to her, she could feel the heat radiating from him, and see the flecks of silver in his beard.</p>
<p>Brienne felt the blush begin to colour her face, and found herself wishing—not for the first time since she had awoken—to be a dragon again. She’d had no patchy blush as a dragon, no too-wide hips and too-broad shoulders; she had been exactly as a dragon ought to be, fit for her purpose. She was not fit for the futile hope that rushed through her body at his words, was not fit to be perched in the lap of a beautiful man who looked so concerned for her. She ought to move, she knew, ought to push herself away from him, retreat to a safer distance, but before she could do so she felt a pressure on her left hip. She looked down to see Jaime’s stump resting there. He could not grasp her with it, but she was held in place all the same. </p>
<p>“Then you—you are <em>not </em>to marry Sansa?” Brienne ventured, though if what he’d said was true, the question was all but redundant now. </p>
<p>“No.” Jaime replied, his voice soft, as if he was trying not to frighten her. </p>
<p>“I am sorry.” </p>
<p>“Don’t be,” Jaime insisted. “You know I never wanted—” </p>
<p>“Of course,” Brienne said as she pushed herself off him and scrambled to her feet. This revelation changed nothing, she reminded herself. Jaime had told her more than once that he could never love any woman but his sister. She would have understood if Sansa had been the woman to prove him wrong, but Brienne was not the kind of woman for whom men put decades of obsession behind them. Her situation had improved only in that her joy at Sansa’s wedding could now be wholly genuine. </p>
<p>“I didn’t want her,” Jaime repeated. “I don’t.” </p>
<p>Jaime still sat on the ground, looking—she could only think he looked bereft, though it made no sense. He stared up at her, and seemed on the verge of speech when Brienne stammered, </p>
<p>“I—I think that is enough for today. You are already better than you think.” </p>
<p>Jaime only nodded back at her from his position on the ground. Brienne knew she ought to extend a hand, to help him back to his feet, but she could not bring herself to move closer. Her every nerve was telling her to flee, telling her that the space between them was still not enough. She turned to leave, to retreat back to the safety of her chamber, but before she could leave him entirely, she turned back. </p>
<p>“If you aren’t to marry Sansa, why did you stay?” </p>
<p>It was a stupid question, she knew as soon as it left her lips. He had myriad reasons to remain, his love for Podrick not least among them. She prepared himself for a sarcastic response, but he only said, </p>
<p>“I dreamed of you.” </p>
<p><em>I dreamed of you. </em>The words echoed through her head as she fled the courtyard, racing through the corridors towards her chamber, where she could close the door behind her, shut herself off from the clamour of the world. Her mind was reeling, and she barely made it to her bed before she collapsed onto it. <em>I dreamed of you. </em>If she was another woman she might think it romantic—but it was useless to even imagine such things. Surely it was a manifestation of his guilt over her long sleep: he dreamed of her death and his inability to stop it. She pushed the words from her mind, and thought again of her conversation with Sansa, trying to remember if there had been any clues, anything that should have alerted her to the impossible truth. </p>
<p>She did not know how long she’d been lying there when Lyarra pushed the door gently open, a steaming bucket in her arms. Lyarra did not speak, but smiled as she poured the hot water into the big copper tub in the corner of Brienne’s room. Brienne only just mustered the energy to thank her. </p>
<p>When Lyarra had carried in enough buckets to fill the tub, she left Brienne alone to bathe. As Brienne sank into the water, she felt the heat draw the ache from her muscles almost immediately. It was strange to feel so sore after so little exercise, but she supposed she should make allowances for her body after lying so still for close to a moon’s turn. For the first time since she had woken, Brienne allowed herself to observe her own body, to examine herself in a way she had been trying to avoid. It had been so many years since she had needed to be aware of it, since she’d had to remind herself of her size and her ugliness and what it meant for her. It had been so much simpler, when she was a dragon: <em>I am a weapon, </em>she had told Jaime, and it had been true for both of her bodies, then. Even in her human shape, she had existed only to protect Sansa, only to vanquish unworthy men. It did not matter what she looked like. </p>
<p>But now, as she remembered the racing of her heartbeat when Jaime had touched her in the training yard, as she forced herself to look at her body beneath the water, all those old insecurities came flooding back. The tub was generously sized, but her white knees were still drawn up towards her body, legs too long to sit entirely comfortably. She looked down at her chest, flushed red from the heat of the bath, broad and muscled like a man’s. She had no breasts to speak of, and her waist refused to curve in as other women’s did. As she folded her hands over her knees, she focused on the cords of muscle in her forearms, and the blotchy freckles that covered the skin there. Her hands were as big as a man’s—not long and slender, but broad and calloused. Her body was not made for love, she reminded herself sternly. If she thought she had seen desire in Jaime’s eyes  that afternoon, if she thought she heard something like longing in his words—<em>I dreamed of you</em>—it was nothing but wishful thinking. What man could ever desire her? Certainly not a man who had once loved the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms. </p>
<p>A knock on the door caused her to start, the water sloshing around her, only just missing the edge of the tub. </p>
<p>“It’s Sansa. May I come in?” came a voice from the other side of the door. She called her assent, and Sansa slipped into the room. Brienne knew she ought to feel self conscious, ought to want to cover herself in the presence of another, but after seven years it still felt like Sansa was an extension of herself, somehow; the tender, easily bruised part of her she always felt she needed to protect. It was a disservice to Sansa, who was brave and strong in her own ways, but after serving as her protector for so long, Brienne could not help seeing her as the girl she had been, rather than the woman she was. </p>
<p>However, Sansa seemed closer to the girl than the woman as she stood before Brienne now: her gaze was downcast, and she fiddled with her skirts as she hovered near the door. It was disconcerting to see Sansa so nervous; she had not seemed so since their first meeting in King’s Landing. Before Brienne could speak, though, Sansa said,  </p>
<p>“Ser Jaime came to speak to me this afternoon.”</p>
<p>Such a thing should hardly warrant Sansa’s apparent discomfort. Brienne could only say, </p>
<p>“Oh?”</p>
<p>“He wasn’t best pleased with me,” Sansa continued, breaking into a rueful smile. </p>
<p>“Why?” she asked, in what she hoped was an off-hand tone. Brienne could think of no reason why Jaime would be angry with Sansa, but her heart still beat a little harder as she awaited the answer. </p>
<p>“Apparently you were unaware that—that it was Pod…” </p>
<p>Sansa finally looked up at Brienne, as if willing Brienne to contradict her. The self-consciousness that Brienne had dismissed only moments before came rushing on; she was too exposed, too naked for this conversation. </p>
<p>“I was,” Brienne admitted, drawing her knees up closer to her chest. It was pointless lying to Sansa now, if Jaime had already told her of their conversation in the training yard. Her cheeks burned as she remembered the heat in his gaze when she overcame him, and prayed that the steam from the bath covered it. “I thought—I thought Ser Jaime—” she stuttered, but was saved from having to continue by Sansa racing across the room and throwing herself to her knees at the edge of the bath. </p>
<p>“No! No, I could never—I’m so sorry, Brienne, I—it was stupid of me. We’ve just… we’ve been together for so long that it felt like… like you must know all my thoughts.” It made perfect sense, Brienne had to admit. How often had she thought something similar? “You always have before, but I suppose we’ve not really—we never spoke about Jaime and Pod as we did with the other suitors,” Sansa finished lamely, resting her chin on the edge of the tub. </p>
<p>“No—you had Arya and I…” <em>I had Jaime. </em>She had wanted to give the sisters space, had actively tried to separate herself from Sansa in a way she’d never done before. Jaime had distracted her with his confessions, and Brienne had found herself unable to focus entirely on Sansa for the first time in years. </p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” Sansa repeated, “you must be so angry with me.” </p>
<p>“Of course I’m not,” she said quickly. “As long as you’re happy, as long as he’s worthy of you, it’s nothing to me whom you wed.” The lie was hardly convincing, Brienne knew. </p>
<p>“He is more than worthy,” Sansa said, unable to help her small smile. “But I thought perhaps you and—” </p>
<p>“You were mistaken,” Brienne interrupted, knowing she would be unable to keep her feelings from her face if Sansa spoke Jaime’s name again. It came out harsher than Brienne had intended, and she waited, breath held, for Sansa to continue, to confront her about her obvious, hopeless, pathetic feelings. But Sansa said nothing more, only picked up the soap and the washcloth from the stool by the side of the tub. She stood up and pushed Brienne’s shoulder gently forward, so her chin could rest on her knees. Sansa dipped the cloth into the water before running it over Brienne’s shoulders and down her back. The cloth was a little rough, but water-soft, and the pressure soothed her tired muscles. The only sound was the trickle of water as Sansa soaped the cloth and washed Brienne’s back, then rinsed the suds from her skin. Brienne barely remembered her mother, and those memories she had were fuzzy, as if viewed through crude glass. This felt like those memories, though, soft and warm and safe. </p>
<p>When Sansa was finished with Brienne’s back, she set the cloth aside and picked up a small cup, filling it with warm water from the bath before she placed a hand on Brienne’s forehead, tipping her head back so Sansa could wet her hair. Brienne sighed as Sansa worked the soap into her scalp, cleaning away the sweat that caused her too-thin hair to clump around her temples. Somewhere in the back of her mind was a voice that told her it was not Sansa’s place to do such a thing for her, that she had done nothing to earn such tender care from the lady she was sworn to serve, but it was a very quiet voice, and drowned out by the sound of Sansa humming softly. It was the song Podrick had sung, Brienne remembered, and she smiled. She would have to ask Sansa for the whole story, later, but it could wait. For now, the wordless quiet felt sacred, and Brienne did not even protest when Sansa picked up a bottle of scented oil from the stool by the bathtub. Brienne had never seen the point in such things, when her hair was so beyond hope, and no amount of sweet smelling lotions would ever make her beautiful. Still, she could not deny that the scent itself was soothing, and the feeling of Sansa gently raking her fingers through Brienne’s hair even more so. </p>
<p>“Jaime sat with you every day you were asleep, you know,” Sansa said, breaking the silence  as she worked the oil into Brienne’s hair. “He was so distraught to think you had sacrificed yourself for him. Then when you thought he was to marry me—he came storming into my chamber demanding to know why I hadn’t told you the truth. I think he...” </p>
<p>She was trying to be kind, Brienne knew, but her words only caused her chest to constrict painfully. She was not stupid; it was clear that Jaime respected her—cared for her, even. But  a man such as him could never feel more than a passing fellowship with a woman such as her, and it was only Sansa’s romantic sensibilities that made her imagine otherwise. </p>
<p>“Please, don’t,” Brienne said, in barely more than a whisper. </p>
<p>Sansa’s hands dropped from Brienne’s hair, and she wiped the oil from her hands in silence. For a moment, she thought Sansa was angry with her, but then Sansa dropped to her knees again next to the bathtub. She held out a still-damp hand and brushed her fingers gently across Brienne’s cheek. </p>
<p>“You have been a <em>dragon, </em>Brienne. Is it really so impossible to imagine you might be loved?” </p>
<p><em>Yes</em>, Brienne wanted to say, <em>it is more than impossible</em>, but Sansa was looking at her so earnestly that she could not bring herself to say the words. She could not bring herself to say anything, but Sansa didn’t seem to require a response. She rose gracefully, giving Brienne’s hand a gentle squeeze before she left, closing the door behind her with a final small smile. </p>
<p>Brienne sat for a long while, letting the water grow tepid around her. Sansa had made it sound so easy, so plausible that Jaime might—but she was wrong. Sansa always wanted to see the best in people, to see the beauty in things; it was no different with Brienne, and though she appreciated Sansa’s kindness, she knew that no man would ever look at her through the same rose-tinted glass. <em>Jaime </em>wouldn’t look at her that way. She quickly scrubbed the rest of her body in the now-cool water, and stepped out of the bath, wrapping herself in the sheet Lyarra had left on her bed. She shivered in the chill evening air, and dried herself as quickly as possible. Then, she put on her shift, and burrowed herself down into her blankets. The thoughts chased themselves around her mind, but she found herself slipping into sleep sooner than she expected, still faintly hoping that things might be less confusing in the morning.</p>
<p>She was right—but only because things were so busy over the next few days that she hardly had time to think. The wedding was in less than a sennight: though Sansa had insisted on waiting for Brienne to recover, Jaime had been equally insistent that Pod and Sansa should marry before his father could get wind of what had occurred and attempt to “correct” the “mistake”. It had been over a moon since Winterfell had been restored, and time was of the  essence. Pod and Sansa would marry in a few days, then begin their journey south to speak with Queen Shireen. </p>
<p>There had been no politics when Sansa was just the maiden in the tower, and Brienne was just the dragon guarding it. She had forgotten how much she hated it all. </p>
<p>Still, it was difficult to dwell on such things when Sansa seemed to have everyone in Winterfell running errands to prepare for the ceremony. Brienne’s least favourite task was her own dress fitting, in which several seamstresses from Winter Town tried their best to disguise their distress at having to create a garment that fit her. She wanted to tell them it was no use, that she would simply wear what she had—men’s garb had always suited her better—but she did not wish to disappoint Sansa. She let the women fuss and fret until the sun was low in the sky, and they were all called to supper. </p>
<p>The rest of the errands were easier, and occupied her mind enough that she could push any unwelcome thoughts away. They also meant she was unable to meet with Jaime again, and she couldn’t help feeling relieved. It was better this way, she told herself; better that she stay away from him where she could not embarrass herself by making her feelings plain. Though she rarely saw him in the days leading up to the wedding, it seemed as though he remained blissfully unaware of her love for him. He smiled at her whenever he saw her in the courtyard or the corridor: surely he would not have done so, had he known. More than once he had tried to speak to her, but she had made excuses to be elsewhere, citing the urgency of her errand. Sansa and Pod would be married soon, he would find his way back to Casterly Rock, and she could forget him. </p>
<p>It was snowing on the morning of the ceremony, just enough that the trees were dusted with white, and the air seemed to sparkle. Sansa walked across the frosted leaves in the godswood like a vision of the Maiden herself. Her dress was of white brocade, and the delicate silver embroidery around the hem of her skirt told the tale of Sansa’s imprisonment, and of Pod’s triumph. Brienne could see herself depicted in the intricate stitching, both as a dragon and a woman—her image ought to be so out of place among such beauty, but Sansa’s radiance seemed to cast its light on everything that day. Against the wintery beauty of her gown and the paleness of her skin, Sansa’s hair was a riot of colour, only loosely braided back in the northern style, allowing her auburn curls to tumble down her back. </p>
<p>Brienne felt tears spring to her eyes as Sansa approached and hooked her little hand into Brienne’s elbow. She did not know when she had given up hope of such a happy ending, but this was more than Brienne had dared to dream of. They walked in silence together through to godswood, to where Pod was waiting under the great weirwood. The blood red sap oozing from white bark had seemed grotesque to Brienne when she had first arrived in Winterfell, but now the tree’s stern expression comforted her. It was as if the forest itself was protecting them.</p>
<p>When Brienne and Sansa emerged into the clearing, Brienne felt her breath catch in her throat. The people of Winterfell were packed into the small space, reaching into the trees at the edges of the clearing, many of which had children perched in their branches. Despite the crowd, there was a reverent silence in the clearing, and the crowd parted as Sansa and Brienne stepped forward, creating a path to the heart tree, where Pod and Jaime stood, waiting. If Sansa were not such a lady, Brienne thought she would have picked up her skirts and run straight into her betrothed’s arms; she could feel the tension in Sansa’s body from holding herself back. </p>
<p>They progressed slowly through the crowd, with Sansa allowing her people to grasp her hand, to kiss it as she passed. She bestowed on each of them the same beatific smile, though Brienne could feel her other hand shaking where it was nestled in the crook of Brienne’s arm. When they reached the front, Arya only winked at her sister as she passed, and Sansa rolled her eyes, barely suppressing a giggle. </p>
<p>The smile was still on her lips when she turned to Pod, who looked on the edge of tears already. His hands were balled into fists by his sides, as if to keep himself from reaching out before it was time. </p>
<p>“Who comes before the Old Gods this morning?” Jaime said, breaking the silence. Brienne did not know why she was surprised at his role in the ceremony. He was the closest thing to a father Podrick had ever had, so it should have been no surprise to hear him speak the ancient words. Brienne imagined that he, too, had spent many hours over the past weeks, committing the unfamiliar words to memory. The marriage ceremony before the Old Gods was not so different to the Southern one, but enough that Brienne worried she might stumble over the words. </p>
<p>Now, beneath the heart tree, she felt certain as she said, </p>
<p>“Sansa, of House Stark, comes here to be wed. A woman grown, she comes to beg the blessing of the gods. Who comes to claim her?” </p>
<p>Pod took a deep, steadying breath before saying, </p>
<p>“Ser Podrick, of House Payne. Who gives her?” </p>
<p>“Lady Brienne, of House Tarth. Her guardian.” Brienne replied. They had decided on the phrasing together, the previous evening. Sansa had put the finishing touches to Brienne’s gown as they sat together in Brienne’s chamber. <em>Are you pleased, Lady Catelyn? </em>Brienne had wondered. <em>Is this what you wanted? </em></p>
<p>“Lady Sansa, do you take this man?” Jaime asked. His voice was low and serious, but Brienne could hear the mirth underlying it. A smile crept onto the edges of his lips, and he looked at Brienne as if to ask, <em>what do you think? Will she have him? </em>Brienne tried to look stern in response, but she could no more keep the smile from her face than he. </p>
<p>“I take this man,” said Sansa, nodding emphatically even as she said the words. Her voice cracked slightly with emotion, and Brienne once again felt her tense as she tried not to rush forward. </p>
<p>“Ser Podrick, do you take this woman?” Jaime asked, and Pod rushed to reply,</p>
<p>“I take this woman.” </p>
<p>Sansa’s hand slipped from Brienne’s arm as she reached out towards her new husband, and they sank to the ground before the heart tree. A hushed silence came over the clearing as the Northerners bowed their heads in deference to their gods. There would be no cloaking, since Sansa would remain a Stark, and pass the name to any children they had. Though Brienne had thought Pod a good and brave man after their battle with the Bloody Mummers, his easy agreement with this condition of his marriage showed Brienne the true quality of his character. </p>
<p>The tears she had been holding back since she first saw Sansa that morning spilled freely now, though she tried to wipe them away before anyone could see. The snow crunched as Podrick helped Sansa back to her feet, and she threw her arms around his neck to draw him in for a kiss. The godswood erupted into cheers, with Jaime’s the loudest of all as he put the fingers of his left hand to his lips and emitted a piercing whistle. When Sansa and Pod eventually broke apart, both were pink with blush and neither seemed able to stop smiling. Sansa shrieked happily as Pod gathered her up in his arms to carry her out of the godswood, and when Brienne met Jaime’s gaze, she wondered if he, too, was remembering the way he had cradled her in his arms only days before. Had it really only been days since she awoke? It felt as though months had passed, with discovery and heartbreak enough to last her years. How many more days would it be before she was forced to return to Tarth, to her duty and the bed of some faceless man who would marry her for her island and nothing more? </p>
<p>But now was not the time to dwell on future misery. Sansa and Podrick were happy, and Brienne was happy for them. Left in the joyful wake of the newlyweds, Brienne let herself be absorbed into the crowd, listening to their chatter as she was carried along by their enthusiasm. She reached out for Jaime instinctively, so as not to lose him in the hubbub, and  he laughed as he grasped her outstretched hand. By the time they were spat out into Winterfell’s courtyard, they were laughing and breathless. </p>
<p>The festivities were already underway, and the courtyard was strewn with flowers: blue winter roses and snowdrops adorned every surface, and evergreen vines wound around every pillar. Light and heat and the sound of laughter came from the wide entrance to Winterfell’s hall, and Brienne started towards the warmth before Jaime tugged her back, hand still twined with hers. </p>
<p>“What is it?” she asked, and Jaime seemed nervous for a second, preparing for something, before he dropped her hand and raised his own towards her face. </p>
<p>“You have—there’s a leaf—” he said, drawing something gently from her hair. He held the piece of red foliage up briefly before tossing it aside, and Brienne mumbled her thanks before they headed briskly inside. </p>
<p>The sounds and smells of the hall assaulted Brienne’s senses immediately: music and shouting filled the air as the smell of spiced meats wafted towards her. She and Jaime took their places at the high table, Brienne next to Sansa and Jaime on Pod’s free side. The atmosphere was one of celebration, and it was easy to get swept up. Sansa and Pod accepted their wedding gifts with grace, and soon it was time for feasting. Northern fare was often simpler than the food in the south, but all the more delicious for it, in Brienne’s opinion. If she missed anything, it was the taste of fresh strawberries; Tarth’s hedgerows were always heavy with fruit in the summer years, and Brienne had been scolded by more than one septa in her youth for coming home with juice sticking to her hands and face. With its colder climate, strawberries were a rarity in the North, and they had been the one thing Brienne had asked of Lyarra that the girl had been unable to provide her. </p>
<p>The sun was setting when Pod and Sansa began the dancing. Sansa was a beautiful dancer, and she made up for Pod’s deficiencies; they were sweet to watch, and once again Brienne was struck by the unexpected happiness that seemed so far from her reach so little time ago. Soon, the rest of the hall rose to join them, though Arya did not so much dance with her blacksmith as push him around the dancefloor while he laughed at her, but the sight warmed Brienne’s heart all the same. She had a feeling that there would be another Stark wedding in Winterfell’s godswood before long. </p>
<p>“Would you do me the honour, my lady?” </p>
<p>Brienne turned, surprised, to see Jaime holding out his hand. <em>He does not mean to mock me, </em>she told herself, but still she could only stutter</p>
<p>“I—forgive me, Ser Jaime, I would make you a poor partner. Please excuse me.” </p>
<p>She stood abruptly, suddenly needing to be away from the noise and the heat of the hall. The air outside was crisp and cold, and Brienne took a deep breath as she leaned against the wall. Why had she run from him? He meant no harm, she was sure: he was not like the unkind men she had known before—she would not love him if he were—yet his innocent offer had unwittingly exposed the frightened girl she still sometimes felt like. It was a stupid feeling, and she steeled herself to return to the hall, but before she could do so, Jaime appeared in the doorway, frowning. </p>
<p>“I sense I need to apologise for something,” he said, “though I’m damned if I know what it is.” </p>
<p>“No, Ser Jaime, you have nothing to apologise for. It is I who should—your offer brought back a… less than pleasant memory, from my life before the war. Very few men have ever asked me to dance without it being a jape.” </p>
<p>She can feel herself colouring with the shame of her admission. <em>Don’t let him pity me, </em>she begged whatever gods were listening. When she forced herself to look him in the face again, she found his expression unreadable. She didn’t think it was pity—she hoped it wasn’t—but he seemed sorry for her all the same.  </p>
<p>“Some green boys, I imagine?” he asked, and Brienne nodded. She had been five and ten when she attended her first dance, and the boys who goaded her had not been much older. “I suppose it is too late to tell you to pay them no mind: boys of that age cannot be trusted to recognise anything of worth—my Pod being the exception, of course.” </p>
<p>Brienne could not help but smile at the way he said “my Pod”, like a proud father, and something in his posture relaxed. He took a few steps towards her to say, “I meant to tell you… before… you—you look well today, my lady. Your dress brings out the colour of your eyes.” </p>
<p>Brienne had barely given any thought to her dress that day. Unaccustomed as she was to wearing one, she had found it a little restrictive, but not as much as she remembered. Perhaps the Winterfell seamstresses were better than the ones on Tarth, because while her corset restricted her ability to bend forward, it was not wholly uncomfortable, and created the illusion of a waist as well as pushing up what little breasts Brienne had. Her skirts billowed out from her hips, enough to seem full, but without so many layers that walking felt weighed down, while the sleeves were cut to detract from the broadness of her shoulders. It was a well made garment, even she could see that, but the real beauty of the gown was, as Jaime observed, in its colour; the bodice, overskirt, and sleeves were of a deep, sapphire blue, but the underskirt and the slashes of the sleeves were lighter: the blue of a summer sky. </p>
<p>“Thank you. Sansa wished me to have something to suit the occasion.” </p>
<p>“And it does. It suits you, too.” </p>
<p>“I require no flattery, Ser Jaime—” </p>
<p>“But you will allow me to tell you the truth, surely?” </p>
<p>There was no arguing with that, she supposed. If he insisted the dress suited her she ought not to argue. <em>When a gentleman pays you a compliment, you should do nothing but smile and thank him, </em>Septa Roelle had told her once, though she had followed it up with, <em>not that you should expect any compliments, looking the way you do. </em></p>
<p>“The wedding was very beautiful,” Brienne said, trying desperately to change the subject. It was hardly subtle—none of her conversation was—and Jaime clearly noticed, as there was a teasing glint in his eye as he replied, </p>
<p>“Indeed. I think Podrick still thinks he’s in some sort of dream. I don’t think he ever imagined such a wife.” </p>
<p>“Or she such a husband, though she’s chosen better than I ever imagined she would.” </p>
<p>Jaime seemed to swell with pride again to hear Pod praised, and Brienne had to look away, certain her feelings were written plainly on her face. But Jaime refused to let her be. </p>
<p>“You never told me the story of <em>your </em>betrothal,” he said, conversationally. Brienne wondered how he remembered such a detail from half a conversation a lifetime ago. “The one that ended in so many broken bones.” </p>
<p>“I never said I would,” Brienne replied. There was a particular shame in being passed over by an aging nobody. Jaime would not understand, beautiful as he was. </p>
<p>“A pity,” he said, “I hoped to share these with you, while you shared your tale.” </p>
<p>He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in a white handkerchief. He held the parcel out to Brienne, who unwrapped it to find five tiny strawberries nestled in his palm. </p>
<p>“How did you—” </p>
<p>“Magic,” Jaime grinned, and Brienne rolled her eyes. </p>
<p>“If you’re going to make fun of me—” </p>
<p>“No!” Jaime scrambled to appease her. “That’s not—Lyarra, it was Lyarra,” he admitted, somewhat sheepishly. “She was distraught when she could find none for you in the castle. But her grandmother knew of a place a few hours ride from here, where they’ve been known to grow. I rode out yesterday.” </p>
<p>“Thank you, Ser Jaime,” she said, stunned. “You really didn’t have to go to such trouble.” </p>
<p>He proffered the handful of berries again, and she raised one to her lips. The fruit was tangy, sharper on her tongue than the ones she remembered, but more intense, and so familiar she could almost weep. </p>
<p>“A gift,” Jaime said softly, “to make my lady smile.” </p>
<p>“A bribe,” Brienne said, around her mouthful of berry, “to prise your lady’s secrets from her.” </p>
<p>“Is it working?” he asked, and Brienne sighed, resigned. She took the little pile of strawberries from him so he could use his good hand to take one for himself, and he ate happily as she began, </p>
<p>“When I was six and ten, my father betrothed me to a castellan, Ser Humfrey Wagstaff. He was sixty-five, and—” </p>
<p>“<em>Sixty-five</em>? What was your father thinking?” Jaime spluttered, and while his outrage on her behalf was charming, she knew her father deserved more credit. It must have been difficult raising a child such as her: too masculine to be a good daughter, never masculine enough to be a good son. </p>
<p>“He had tried to betroth me twice already,” Brienne explained. “He was growing desperate, and I more ugly by the day.” </p>
<p>“Brienne—” he tried to protest, but Brienne was in no mood to hear his platitudes. </p>
<p>“Do you wish to hear the story, or would you prefer to keep interrupting me?” Jaime surrendered, and gestured for her to continue. “Ser Humfrey was not impressed by my skill with a sword, and insisted that if I were to be his wife, I must give it up entirely. I had been willing to give up my maidenhead and any vain hope of love I still had, but I would not give up my sword. I told him that I would only accept wifely chastisement from a man who could outfight me. Thinking me nothing but a headstrong girl, he agreed to single combat; I broke his collarbone and two of his ribs. He broke our betrothal. My father gave up trying to find me a husband after that.” </p>
<p>The thought of her father saddened Brienne. She had written to him, of course, after she awoke, though she knew there had not been time for him to reply. Part of her yearned for home, to see his kind, weathered face again, but she knew that duty awaited her on Tarth as well. She was not a girl anymore, and she could not refuse a fourth suitor, if one existed. </p>
<p>“I’d call that a story worthy of song,” Jaime said, pulling her from her thoughts, “but it has made you sad.” </p>
<p>How to explain to him the contradiction she felt when she thought of her home? She ate another strawberry instead of answering immediately. </p>
<p>“I will have to return to Tarth soon,” she said eventually. “I do miss my father, but I cannot help fearing what he needs from me. I am five and twenty now, and the island will need an heir after me. I thought—I thought I had time before that duty would press so heavily on me. But I have spent so much of my youth already, and not the way I would have wished it.”  </p>
<p>“How did you dream of spending it?” Jaime asked, but Brienne only shook her head. </p>
<p>“You will laugh at me.” </p>
<p>“On my honour, I will not.” </p>
<p>“I wanted—I wanted to be a real knight; to travel Westeros in disguise, to fight in tourneys and rescue innocents.” It sounded ridiculous now she said it out loud. When she had set off from Tarth to join Renly’s army, she had thought all knights must be gallant, and goodness would always prevail. “A child’s fantasy—life is not a song.” </p>
<p>She expected Jaime to mock her, but he only smiled softly and said, </p>
<p>“I think your Lady and my squire would disagree. Theirs will become legend.” </p>
<p>She could not deny it. A maiden in a tower, guarded by a dragon, was a song Brienne would have happily heard a thousand times as a child. Sansa and Podrick would likely go down in history, and she and Jaime along with them. She knew how such tales went. </p>
<p>“If that is so, then we are the villains,” she said. “The fearsome dragon, and the tarnished knight who tried and failed to win fair maiden.” </p>
<p>Jaime did not seem dissuaded. </p>
<p>“We shall have to make a song of our own, then,” he ventured, “enter tourneys in disguise and astound everyone. We shall become a heroic pair of hedge knights, slaying bandits and rescuing maidens.” </p>
<p>His eyes lit up as he spoke, and Brienne found his almost child-like enthusiasm to be infectious. He painted a pretty picture, Brienne had to admit—far too tempting. It could never be, though, for reasons beyond her duty to her home. </p>
<p>“We’ll make a formidable pair, Ser Jaime,” she admitted, “until one of those maidens turns your head.” She was half joking, but the joviality dropped from Jaime’s countenance at her words. </p>
<p>“Surely you cannot think that.” He looked stricken, and Brienne remembered the unnatural tenderness with which he had spoken of his twin. </p>
<p>“Forgive me,” Brienne stumbled to correct herself. “I know you told me—your—Queen Cersei—” </p>
<p>“Is long dead, and lived to be a madwoman,” Jaime said, gently. “I know I told you I would never love another, but you must see that has changed.” </p>
<p><em>Changed? What could have changed between then and now? </em>Jaime had assured her that he harboured no feelings towards Sansa, and he did not seem the kind of man to simply abandon a lifelong love for no reason but that time had passed and his lover was dead. </p>
<p>“I don’t understand,” she said, and Jaime gave a wry laugh. </p>
<p>“And here I thought myself too obvious. I should have been plain with you, but I—will you allow me to be plain now?” </p>
<p>Brienne could only nod. All rational thought seemed to flee as he drew closer to her. </p>
<p>“I love you,” he said. “I think I have loved you since you beat me to the ground beneath Sansa’s tower. I know that I loved you when I came to your rooms the morning you woke up; I loved you while you trained me; I loved you this morning when I saw you in the godswood, and I love you in the moonlight this evening. I do not—I have never been good with words but I hope you will allow me to show you the truth of them now.” </p>
<p>She was dreaming: Brienne was sure of it. There could be no other explanation for the way Jaime was looking at her, for the earnestness of his expression, or the fervour of his words. She could not speak. Her right hand reached up of its own accord to gently touch the side of his face; the hair of his beard was prickly, and the skin above it was soft, but she knew how real things could seem, in dreams. He took a deep, shuddering breath at her touch, and moved closer, resting the stump of his right arm on her waist. </p>
<p>“Please, Brienne—” he breathed, desperate and unsteady. Brienne did not know what he was asking of her, but there was little she could refuse him now. She nodded, and Jaime hesitated only for a fraction of a moment before he rose up on his tiptoes to kiss her. </p>
<p>His lips on hers were soft, and still flavoured with strawberries; his hand on her cheek was impossibly gentle, as if she were a wild horse that might bolt at any moment. It lasted only a few heartbeats, and Brienne had never been more certain she was dreaming. She had been kissed like a maiden in a song, with passion and tenderness befitting a woman five hundred times more beautiful than she had ever been. </p>
<p>Jaime drew back only an inch, so the tip of his nose brushed against her cheek. He still held her waist with his right arm, her jaw still cradled in his hand, and Brienne could do nothing but whisper, </p>
<p>“Jaime.” </p>
<p>Then, he surged up to kiss her again, and it was nothing like the songs. He pulled her waist towards him so their bodies were flush from chest to hips, and she melted against him, letting her own hands find purchase in his hair. As she tangled her fingers in his curls she felt him let out a shaky breath, parting his lips to deepen the kiss. She shuddered as he licked into her mouth, trying to match his movements clumsily with her own. When he drew her bottom lip between his teeth she could not hold back a soft moan, swiftly followed by a gasp as her back hit the stone wall, and one of Jaime’s thighs pressed itself between her own. </p>
<p>It was then that Brienne realised she could not be dreaming. She had never felt so awake, with every nerve in her body set alight; in none of her dreams had a man ever wanted her with such fervour, her imagination alone could not conjure the sweet, maddening feel of his breath against her lips, his tongue hot on the roof of her mouth, his muscled thigh pressed between her legs. She shuddered with the force of her desire, and Jaime broke the kiss suddenly, not letting her go, but burying his face against the curve of her neck. He panted slightly against her, and she let her fingers card gently through his hair. <em>He loves me, </em>she thought, the words sounding strange even inside her head, <em>this brave, beautiful, infuriating man loves me. </em></p>
<p>The idea was overwhelming, and she closed her eyes, letting her head tip back against the wall. Jaime pressed a feather-light kiss against her neck as she did so, and it was such a tender thing, so soft, that she felt tears well in her eyes, leaking through her lids to tumble down her cheeks. <em>He loves me. </em></p>
<p>It was Jaime who broke the silence, lifting up his head to say, </p>
<p>“Forgive me, that was not—Brienne? You’re crying.” He dropped her like she was burning hot, and stepped away. She felt his absence like a chill, and her hands rushed forward to grasp him before he could move too far from her. “I’m sorry I shouldn’t have—did I frighten you? Are you hurt?” </p>
<p>“No. No,” she insisted, tugging at his sleeve to pull him back into her embrace. “It was only that I—that I was too happy. I had convinced myself you could only ever feel a… a comradeship for me. I never imagined—never dreamed that you might feel… the way I feel for you.” </p>
<p>Jaime smiled as he wound his arms around her waist again, tilting his head up to kiss away the tears on her cheeks. </p>
<p>“And what is it that you feel for me, my lady?” he asked, a teasing smile on his face. </p>
<p>“Love,” she answered, simply. “I love you.” </p>
<p>It was more bold than she had ever been, and Jaime beamed before he took her mouth again in a long, lush kiss. </p>
<p>When they broke apart, Jaime said, </p>
<p>“I know it is considered bad manners to propose at a wedding. So I shall wait until tomorrow to ask if you’ll marry me.” </p>
<p>There was still a part of Brienne that expected him to change his mind, to see her in the light of day the following morning and wonder what madness had overcome him, but she pushed it aside. She was too happy for doubts. He had seen her in the sunlight and he promised he had loved her then, too. She believed him. </p>
<p>“Until tomorrow, then?” Brienne said, cradling his face in her hands. For once they didn’t seem too large: they held him perfectly. </p>
<p>Jaime smiled. </p>
<p>“Until tomorrow.” </p><hr/><p>Sunlight shimmered in the East. Gentle morning beams turned the clouds to butter. In the long grass, a pair of lovers watched the sky grow light. </p>
<p>“It is dawn, my lady,” said the Lion. </p>
<p>“Already?” asked the Knight. </p>
<p>“Will you come with me to the Sept this morning?” </p>
<p>“If you wish it, my lord.” </p>
<p>“I have wished it every day I’ve known you.” </p>
<p>If the gods had heard the Lion’s wishes, they were kind. </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>